Blood Bowl: Season of Pain
by maddokgrotsnik
Summary: Dwarven coach Edwyrd Kettlebelly is forced to take small-time, all-orc team the Orctown Oldboyz all the way to the Chaos Cup. There will, most definitely, be blood.
1. Chapter 1

_It was time. A new season._

_In the rotting, endless caverns leagues beneath the surface of the earth, the dwarves of Clan Urthshield and the goblins of the Mir halted their centuries-old war, gave each other slightly sheepish looks, and trudged back to their respective camps-_

_Just outside a burning village on the Border Principalities, the vampire Fliltir sighed, checked his pocket watch, and ordered his shambling hordes of the undead to break off their relentless advance and return to a field outside Reikland that he'd booked out specially for training-_

_In his skull-filled lair in the mountains of Norsca, a rat-man warlord spared the life of his murderous subordinate, reasoning to himself that he'd never be able to find another thrower in time for the play-offs-_

_An entire elven forest was annihilated as the dark gods materialised an entire stadium of twisted flesh and bone on top of it in preparation for the Chaos Cup-_

_A thousand high mages of the Association of Broadcasting Conjurers battled it out with an army of dark wizards from the Necromancers' Broadcasting Circle and their horrid pets, trying to win exclusive Cabalvision rights once and for all-_

_Locked in a sacred chamber, a Bretonnian lord wept as he betrayed his ancient order's vows, sacrificing a virgin to the god Nuffle in order that the Reikland Reavers should not end up in the same pool as the team he'd bet on-_

_ In the top room of Dirkbane's Blacksmith's & Associates, the referee William Humstein had himself fitted out for a new suit of full-plate body armour-_

_In the streets and alleyways of every town, blue scarves clashed with red banners, beer spilled into gore, and the chant went up, from a million mouths-_

_**Blood Bowl! Blood Bowl! Blood Bowl!**_

It was time. A new season.

The dwarf Edwyrd Kettlebelly strode out over the patchy grass of Old Ghoul's Green's smallest recreational field, adjusted his beard, and yelled,

"All right! Listen up, you horrible lot! I'm your new coach, Edwyrd Kratek, and you will, repeat, will, shut your mouths and pay attention while I'm...while I'm talking..."

He mumbled himself to an incoherent halt.

The Orctown Oldboyz, unheeded, continued to beat the living snot out of each other. A large red thing with an enormous, toothy mouth, bounced joyously through the melee, tiny goblins clinging to it. The team's blitzers were laying merrily into the prone thrower with their hob-nailed boots. A much larger, shambling green-skinned monster was attempting, with some amount of success, to eat the ball.

Edwyrd gazed at it ruefully. He was pretty sure it was a troll. And he was supposed to slay trolls, technically speaking. He just wasn't quite sure how you were supposed to go about it.

Slowly, he removed the scrumpled-up note from beneath his chainmail vest and stared at it, to check he hadn't got the time or the date wrong.

_Old Ghoul's Green, Playing Field Eleven, Midday. Team will be waiting for you there. Put them through their paces!_

_Leopold Bruckheim_

Edwyrd turned and gazed back over the other playing fields, where the distant teams were busy practicing passes, throwing the ball between one another, tackling...it was too much to hope for, he thought, that someone had switched around the field numbers in the night for a bad joke. Maybe these greenskin hooligans were somebody else's team and he was supposed to coach the humans on Field Nine. Or even the Halflings tottering around in the grass on Field Seven. Or...

"Ah," someone said, from a certain distance above his shoulder, "come to watch the fun, have you? You've picked the right team for it. Dok McKlowd there's been testing out a new fungus-beer-powered jetpack and I think today's going to be the day it finally explodes."

Edwyrd turned, and found himself staring up into the grinning face of a madman, filled with spiky red hair that protruded from every possible angle and out of every possible orifice. A pipe, perched between the creature's few, yellowing teeth, only added to the confusion.

The apparition nodded at him, and, tucking its robes around it, it sat down on the wet grass, apparently in order to watch the spectacle. After a moment, it produced a bagful of McMurty's Famed Potato Segments and began to munch on them, pipe still perched between its teeth.

"Um," Edwyrd said, feeling that perhaps he should show some of the leadership qualities he'd been hired for, "excuse me, but...I'm the new coach and...well, the owner told me to come down here for training..."

"Oh, of course you are," the red-haired man said, without turningto look at him. "You're the dwarven fella, aren't you? Bruckheim's told me all about you, don't worry. Want a pipeful? I think I have a spare.. name's Fourtooth, by the way. Priest o' Sigmar, and team apothecary. I – oh, good hit, sir, good hit!" he yelled, clapping, as an orc went flying up into the air.

Edwyrd stared at him.

"You're responsible for healing these vicious monsters?" he asked, after it seemed no explanation was forthcoming.

"Oh, yes," Fourtooth replied, patting down his pockets for the elusive spare pipe. "Easiest job in the world. No orc, you see, is ever going to admit to having an injury. So I just wait until they've finished and then patch up the ones who're knocked out on the floor – ah. Found it."

Edwyrd accepted the slightly mouldy-looking clay pipe and let Fourtooth light it.

"And when do they usually finish?" he ventured.

Fourtooth seemed to consider it.

"Well," he said, tugging at his whiskers, "usually it's when all of 'em are knocked out on the floor but one. And then often he'll realise everyone else's doing it and knock himself out, out of solidarity."

"And they train like this?"

"It starts out as training, certainly," Fourtooth said, shrugging. "Sometimes they even use the ball. It's just...well, orcs like fighting, coach. You know how they are."

He gave Edwyrd a strangely sympathetic look.

"Look, I'll call the captain over," he said. "Him and me have had a certain rapport since I leant him my scalpels for the Tribal Leeg play-offs. And you can introduce yourself to him."

"Thank you," Edwyrd replied. He put the pipe in his mouth, inhaled, and instantly began to choke. It tasted revolting.

Fourtooth cupped his hands together and yelled, shrilly,

"Oi! Waz!"

An enormous greenskin, clad in the team's blue and black leathers, punched one of his teammates decisively in the mouth a couple of times before turning around. Waving one massive hand, he lurched forward towards them, stepping on his fallen teammates as he went.

"Wazguttle's the intellectual of the group," Fourtooth said confidingly. "He's caught the ball three times in training so far. And he actually knows what a foul is – Waz," he called, as the orc approached, "this dwarven fella wants a word with you."

Wazguttle drew to an abrupt halt. His tiny red eyes fixed onto Edwyrd, and seemed to harden.

Edwyrd took a step backwards.

I'm not sure, he told himself, all things considered, that I'd get very far if I ran.

He stuttered.

"Ah. Hello. I'm...um...I'm Edwyrd Kettlebelly. I'm...er...well, I'm your new coach."

Wazguttle continued to stare at him. His gargantuan green biceps rose, and fell. Finally, a scarlet tongue emerging from between two thick tusks, he grunted,

"Kotch?"

He glanced across towards Fourtooth, as if seeking help with a difficult philosophical question.

"A coach," the priest said, waving his arms in explanation, "is someone who tells you what to do on the pitch. Advises you," he added quickly, taking note of the slow, stormy frown spreading across Wazguttle's brow. "He advises you on what you should do. Who you should hit first, and so on."

Wazguttle still appeared to be confused by this new information.

"We ain't had never no kotch before," he muttered.

Edwyrd pressed his advantage.

"Look," he said, "the new owner sent me. Leopold Bruckheim?"

Wazguttle looked blankly at him.

"Sigmar's arse," Fourtooth said, "Bruckheim. You remember him, Waz. He bought the team from the executors of Hampton Marz' estate. And I know you remember Hampton Marz, because you were the one who ate him. Short man, balding. You said he tasted like elf."

"I'm here to help you win," Edwyrd insisted.

"'Elp us win," Wazguttle repeated, to himself. He removed his helmet, revealing a shock of spiky black hair, and scratched at his head.

"Yoo's a stuntie," he told Edwyrd, after a moment.

"Yes," Edwyrd said, and added, unnecessarily, "I know."

Wazguttle belched, with a certain thoughtfulness.

"I've just spent a season apprenticed to the assistant coach of the Pergamo Pastas," Edwyrd continued, "and I studied at the College of Blood Bowl in Middenheim, achieving a second class degree with majors in tackling and cage manoeuvres – hey, where's it going?"

The big orc, without listening to this impressive list of qualifications, had turned around and was sloping back across the field towards the ongoing battle.

Fourtooth laid a cautionary hand on Edwyrd's head.

"Let him go, coach," he said. "He just needs to talk things over with the team. Very democratic, are orcs. They like to make sure everyone gets a punch in, anyway."

Edwyrd watched as Wazguttle got his team's attention, gradually, by grabbing hold of two of them at a time and banging their heads together, and then yelling at them. A few of the guttural words floated out through the air – "stuntie", "kotch". Some of the players began to peer past him in Edwyrd's direction.

"You'll be all right," Fourtooth said, soothingly. "They'll take to you pretty quickly."

"I should bloody well hope so," Edwyrd snapped."With my credentials, I could have got a job with any team in the league-"

Fourtooth gave him a look.

"Credentials? Oh, no – orcs don't give a fig about your credentials. But you're a dwarf, y'see. The boyz love dwarven Blood Bowl players. They played some of you last season, and they haven't been able to figure out since how someone so small can hit so hard – ah, they want you to come over. Go on, they won't bi...actually, no. Forget I said that."

Edwyrd glared at him.

Wazguttle gave a little informal salute as Edwyrd approached.

"Dese der boyz," he said, waving towards the amassed team.

Edwyrd gazed into the hungry scarlet eyes of his species' most ancient and implacable enemies.

"Er, hello," he squeaked. "I look forward to working with all of you."

His attention was drawn to the toothy red creature, which was scratching furtively at itself on the ground.

"Dat's Squiggie," Wazguttle said helpfully. "Der team maskot."

"He eats the opposition's cheerleader's as well," Fourtooth said, coming up behind Edwyrd. "Great for getting the crowd on your side."

He gazed out over the leering orcs and snapped, with a decisiveness that made Edwyrd tremble,

"Well, what are you gits looking at? Introduce yourselves, why don't you?"

There was a little shuffling amongst the team-members before one lanky, grinning orc raised a hand.

"I'z Grobb," he mumbled. "I'z der catcha."

"Good," Edwyrd said, taking in his long, gorilla-like arms. "Bet you've got a good reach with those," he added.

Wazguttle beamed proudly.

"'E spent five dayz on da rack ter get like that," he said.

Edwyrd noticed an orc sitting on the far left of the group, wearing what appeared to be thick onyx spectacles and with a grinding metal contraption strapped to its back. Green smoke was rising from the device's many pipes.

"And you must be Dok McKlowd," he said. "How's that jet-pack working out for you?"

The orc gibbered a little in response and raised both thumbs in response.

Wazguttle pointed towards a leathery-looking, unusually short greenskin towards the back of the group.

"Dis is Luggen," he said. "'E's der oldest playa in der team. Top scora."

Luggen raised his head. Edwyrd caught a sight of sunken, scarred cheeks and burning eyes.

"I's Flirksmasher," a hulking Black Orc said, raising his hand, "an' I dunno why's we got ter have a kotch at all. We winz matches all der time as it is."

"You don't win matches," Fourtooth snapped. "You haven't won a match in the last three seasons. Flirksmasher, we've been over this a thousand times – you don't win by bashing in your opponent's head, you win by scoring with the ball."

A rumble of discontent suggested that not all of the team agreed with this appraisal of the game. Some of the players started to shove one another. Flirksmasher, jabbing his finger into the palm of his hand, began to yell,

"-bashed 'is 'ead in real good-"

Edwyrd tore his gaze away with difficulty from the growing ruckus; a wet, warm sensation was spreading over his right foot. He looked down, and realised that a tiny goblin, wearing a blue-and-black helmet, was urinating on his shoe.

He kicked out, instinctively, and connected with a crack. The goblin went flying up into the air, squealing in terror.

The Oldboyz fell silent. One or two of them, as the little creature splatted down into the grass surrounding the far endzone, began to clap.

Edwyrd took a breath.

"Right," he said. "As I was about to say, I'm your new coach, and you will shut up and pay attention while I'm talking. You horrible lot."

He stooped, and picked up the ball. It was a little sticky with troll saliva.

"Anyway," he announced, "you all know why we're here. Let's play Blood Bowl."


	2. Chapter 2

_The Flayed Hare _was a Reikland Reavers tavern, just outside the small wooden stadium where play-offs occasionally took place. It had been built to accommodate the enormous variety of fans that streamed into the village of Turnton every season. So the roof was several times higher than a human, with bar stools that ranged from delightful miniature chairs carved out of soap to towering blocks of granite.

Edwyrd sat in the corner, a nice tankard of beer beside him, and looked over his notes.

The Orctown Oldboyz were, he'd decided, not all that bad. At least, they wouldn't be all that bad if they could be only persuaded to keep their hands on the ball once in a while, rather than tossing away the irritating leathery thing so that they could punch their opposite number with both fists at once. But they were good hitters.

Wasn't there a very successful Ogre team once, he asked himself, that had been persuaded to eat the ball at kick-off and then simply charge to the end-zone? And a Giant player who wasn't even aware of the ball's existence, who was simply told by his coach to lie down flat across the pitch, thus almost certainly putting his body into contact both with the ball, wherever it happened to be on the pitch, and the end-zone (and, just as certainly, flattening the referee and allowing the coach to claim a draw?)

Yes, he thought. There were possibilities here.

A small, delicate cough. Edwyrd looked up.

Leopold Bruckheim's belly met him full in the face.

Edwyrd looked further up.

The Oldboyz' owner was dressed in the finest Middenheim fashions, including a monocle that wasn't so much perched on his cheek as wedged between two folds of fat.

Bruckheim placed his own glass of triple-distilled Moot brandy (pigs' piss, thought Edwyrd) on the table, and took a seat.

"Zo," he said, smoothly, steepling his fingers. "How iz my team doing, Mister Potgut?"

"Kettlebelly," Edwyrd said. "Well, they're a, ah, good bunch, Mr Bruckheim. Very promising."

He slid the sheet of paper marked 'Future Possibilities' across the table.

"I thought we could have a few friendlies against some of the local teams," he began. "Get the lads to work on their running, maybe even make a few passes. And then, next season, the Clean Cup."

Bruckheim pushed the sheet of paper marked 'Future Possibilities' back towards Edwyrd.

"I was thinking," he said, brightly, "ze Chaos Cup."

Edwyrd stared at him.

"The Chaos Cup," he said slowly.

"Yes," Bruckheim replied."Ze Chaos Cup. Is something ze matter wiz zat?"

Edwyrd spent some time fiddling with his tankard handle before he finally plucked up the courage to say,

"Mr Bruckheim, that's completely insane."

"You zaid zey vere good," Bruckheim pointed out, looking a little hurt.

"Yes, yes, they're good," Edwyrd admitted, "but...they're good in the same way that a small child can be good. At the Chaos Cup they'd be up against the, against the Scramblers, the Chaos All-Stars – and that's even if they got into the play-offs!"

And at the Chaos Cup, he thought, going a little pale, they crucify coaches who can't win a game for their team. If the coach is lucky.

He held up his hands.

"Look," he said. "It's your team, Mr Bruckheim, and obviously it's your decision. But I think perhaps we should have a few friendly matches before we leap into the toughest, most violent tournament in the entire sport. Just to...see if we're ready."

The human bar-maid came with more drinks. Her eyes were blue, Edwyrd noticed, and she smiled at him as she poured another tankard.

He shook his head.

I'm a dwarf, he told himself. I don't stare at human women. What on earth is happening to me?

The drizzle fell around Old Ghoul's Green, and the Orctown Oldboyz assembled for their first match of the season.

Edwyrd glanced across at the opposition, huddled on the other side of the pitch, almost proudly. It had been simple enough to bribe the wizard who chose at random which teams would play one another. And now the Oldboyz were up against the all-halfling squad, The Gluddlewit Gluttons, proud recipients of the Middenheim Most All-Around Useless Team gift certificate three years in a row.

An easy win, he thought. Give Bruckheim something to brag about. And maybe he'll forget about this ridiculous Chaos Cup idea.

He caught sight of Fourtooth, scrambling forward with a couple of bags over the turf.

"Coach," he was shouting, "Coach! Take a look at that!"

Edwyrd followed his finger.

Approaching, with all the speed of a glacier, was something enormous; misshapen, and gnarled, autumn leaves still hanging from its branches. With infinite patience, it strode directly through a neighbouring pitch; the humans playing there yelled at it, attempting to kick at its great feet. It swatted them back carelessly and kept walking.

"A tree-man," Edwyrd breathed. "Where'd they get a tree-man?"

"On loan from the Faerie Foresters," Fourtooth said, wheezing heavily as he arrived on the pitch. "Swapped it for ten cauldrons of tasty stew."

Some of the Oldboyz, turning from their quiet warm-up game of kick-the-Snotling, had already noticed the tree-man. Grobb was doing a little excited dance, clapping his hands in anticipation; old Luggen, on the edge of the pitch, was rubbing his leathery chin with the calculating eye of an old connoisseur.

Edwyrd yelled at them to gather around for a huddle.

Moments later, he found himself completely engulfed by eleven green bodies twice as tall as him and almost as wide.

"Right," he said, trying not to breathe in, "remember your training. Bash the halflings every opportunity you get. Keep your legs together so they can't scuttle through them. And ignore the tree-man."

Flirksmasher growled. It was a deep, menacing growl, and it flecked Edwyrd's face with spittle.

He stood his ground.

"Ignore the tree-man," he repeated. "It'll want to grab hold of as many of you as possible; it's a trap. If you get into contact with it, get out of contact. And remember – bashing is important, but bash...tactically. Get the ball to Grobb or the Dok..."

He had a thought.

"Dok," he asked, "are you going to keep using that jet-pack?"

Dok McKlowd lifted his goggles off his beady red eyes for a moment, and considered it.

"Yup," he concluded.

Edwyrd turned back.

"Get the ball to Grobb," he said firmly. "All right? And if he decides to make a run for the endzone, protect him. Good luck, and play well. Wazguttle, go to the referee and make the call for the coin toss-"

"Hang on, hang on," said Fourtooth, who had scuttled in through Flirksmasher's legs and who was, even now, cross-legged on the grass, smoking a pipe, "before they go in, they have to sing the Oldboyz song, isn't that right, lads? For good luck."

A few murmurs of,

"Dat's right."

Edwyrd nodded gratefully at Fourtooth.

"All right, then," he said. He knew what the song would be, of course. The same song every Orc team sang, that radiated out of every stadium where an Orc team played, yelled out from a hundred thousand voices.

A huge intake of breath. Edwyrd prepared himself.

"'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO-"

The sheer volume of sound almost knocked him off his feet. He leant forward, wincing, as the Oldboyz roared,

"'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO-"

He risked a look upwards. Wazguttle's eyes were closed, as if he was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the song. Grobb was mumbling, his lips barely moving, looking extremely shifty; Edwyrd suspected he'd forgotten the words.

"'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO-"

The tune came abruptly to a halt, to Edwyrd's relief. He'd watched matches where the Orc team had continued to sing it right through the referee's starting whistle.

"Go get 'em, lads," he shouted, his eardrums ringing, and his team, with an answering howl, pounded past him towards the half-way-line.

"Stirring speech," Fourtooth said, from the ground. "Of course, you don't want to be too stirring, you'll get them riled up. Last coach did that one match and they all charged off without waiting for the match to start. Beat the opposition to a pulp in their dressing-room. It would've been one of the best victories of the season too," he sighed, "if the referee hadn't disallowed it."

They strolled back to the little wooden spectator's stand and took their seats. On the pitch, Wazguttle had won the toss and was celebrating by shaking the frightened referee up and down.

Edwyrd gazed in consternation at the deserted places.

"Don't we...have any fans?" he asked. "Waz, we want to receive – RECEIVE! Put him down! Good orc!"

Fourtooth licked his lips.

"There was a big rock," he said, "that was always around when we played here. The lads said it was their biggest fan."

"What happened to it?"

"It didn't turn up to one of our away games, so Flirksmasher and Dik Der Cunnnin' smashed it up with a couple of hammers in retaliation. The next day a couple of dwarves turned up and took away the pieces to their quarry. Sad, really."

Edwyrd felt a sticky, unpleasant sensation against his palm. He glanced down.

Squiggie paused to give him a big toothy smile, then continued to lick his hand.

The whistle blew; and a little halfling stumbled up to the ball, kicking at it, flying forward in the process.

Most of the Oldboyz watched it fall. Luggen, with the awareness of a veteran, had already punched his opposite number in the kidneys and stamped on the little fellow's head.

The ball hit the turf, close to the Oldboyz' touchline. Grobb stared at it for a moment, and then lurched towards it. Several of the halflings were already streaking forward, tumbling through the Orcs' legs with practised ease.

"Yes!" Edwyrd shouted. "Yes, Grobb! Get the ball upfield!"

Grobb, hearing his name called, stopped and turned. Spotting Edwyrd, he started to give him a little wave.

"No!" Edwyrd screamed. "The ball! The ball!"

Grobb, remembering the ball, stooped and picked it up just as a squat halfling dived at him, and immediately bounced straight off his right knee. There was a cracking sound.

Grobb stared at the prone body, and then began to stumble forwards. Near the half-way-line, Dik Der Cunnin' had unwisely chosen to attack the tree-man and was even now being dangled ten feet in the air by his ankle.

"Good luck," someone said, by Edwyrd's ear. He turned.

The halfling coach nodded at him, and began to unwrap his sandwich.

"Good luck to you too," Edwyrd said, smiling.

A moment of amiable silence followed. Edwyrd decided to strike up a rapport,

"You know, I've seen such bad behaviour amongst the professional coaches," he said. "But it's so nice to meet someone who can coach competitively and remain a gentleman."

On-field, Flirksmasher knocked over a halfling. The little fellow's leg snapped in two.

The halfling coach threw down his sandwich, turned to Edwyrd, and spat,

"You're using an injury-generating wizard, aren't you, dwarf? AREN'T YOU?"

Edwyrd said,

"Er, no."

He glanced across to Fourtooth, who shrugged.

A shriek; Grobb had somehow managed to trip over his own legs, sending the ball tumbling out over the field, where it was halted by the body of a Halfling. Four Oldboyz leapt into the fray. For a tense moment, all was confusion.

And then Wazguttle leapt clear, a tiny receptacle clutched beneath his arm. Two of his teammates ran with him, ready to block the surprisingly scant defence. Someone tripped.

Wazguttle kept running until he was in the endzone, where he smashed his cargo triumphantly into the ground and roared in celebration. The rest of the Orcs charged forward, pumping their fists and cheering.

Edwyrd's screams of,

"No! No!" went unheard.

Beneath Wazguttle's fist, the dazed little Halfling groaned and rolled out of the endzone soil. At the other end of the pitch, the Gluttons, toddling across the Oldboyz' abandoned half, scored a touchdown.

The halfling coach turned back to Edwyrd and shouted,

"Yeah! Learn to play, you moron!"

Edwyrd sat, his head in his hands.

When the half-time whistle blew, the Oldboyz came trudging despondently across to the stand. They stood in silence as Fourtooth handed out orange halves.

"'E really did look like der ball," Wazguttle said, at last. "'E was round and everyfing."

"You were doing well out there," Fourtooth said soothingly. "Just...try to concentrate more, keep your eye on the ball. Ain't that right, coach?"

Edwyrd did not reply.

Flirksmasher snarled, suddenly,

"'Oo needs der ball, anyhow? We smashed a stuntie's kneecap and broke anuffer's 'ead. Dat's what we do! Dat's why we're winnin'! Right? Right?"

There was a general roar of approval.

"No," said Edwyrd, in a small, sad voice.

Heads turned.

He gazed out over his team.

"Bashing is useful, gentlemen," he said, "but it isn't the game itself. Bashing means nothing if you can't get hold of that ball and run for your life for the opposition endzone. Bash at the wrong time or in the wrong place, and you've left a gap they can exploit. And bashing," he conceded, "may feel good; it may feel great, to knock your opponent down and leave him twitching on the floor, but it is nothing, *nothing*, to the sensation of touching that ball down in the grass. Of looking back across eleven of your fiercest enemies, and thinking, 'I've beaten all of you. I've outbashed you, I've outsmarted you, I've outran you, and I've outplayed you.'

He smiled, to himself.

"When you feel like that," he added, quietly, "you know what it means to be a god. What it means to be a Blood Bowl player."

The Oldboyz stared at him.

Flirksmasher growled, jabbing a finger at him,

"What's 'e know 'bout it, anyway – 'e's just a stuntie-"

CRACK.

Flirksmasher stumbled, tripped, and fell. He gazed up, a hand raised to his cheek, astonished.

Wazguttle gazed calmly down at him, his fist still clenched.

"Talk like dat to der kotch again, Flirksmasher," he said, evenly, "an' I'll lay yer out, yer grot. 'E's tryin' ter 'elp us," he yelled, staring around the team, "'cos 'e wants us ter win. Least we can do is listen ter him."

Fourtooth glanced back towards Edwyrd and murmured,

"Waz, why don't you help Flirksmasher up, and get back onto the pitch? Referee's waiting for you."

Wazguttle grunted, and then extended a hand. Flirksmasher hesitated for a moment before taking it.

The whistle blew. And the ball went soaring out, bouncing into the Gluttons' half.

Dok McKlowd stared solemnly at it. His hands worked around to the big lever at the corner of his jetpack.

"Ter infinity," he declared, pointing ahead, "an...some uffer places too."

The ensuing explosion set three halflings alight. The Dok was carried off by two of his teammates and placed in the stands.

"You all right, Dok?" Fourtooth asked, sponging his forehead.

The orc grinned.

"I'm flyin', right?" he said. "Mus' be, I can see all der stars..."

He passed out.

Edwyrd opened his pocket watch and checked it. Ten minutes to go, and they were still one-nil down. Worse, to his horror, the match on the neighbouring pitch had come to an end, and a couple of human supporters had trailed over and sat themselves down on the stand beside him.

One of them nudged him.

"What's the score?" he asked.

"I really have no idea," said Edwyrd.

A moment passed before it occurred to him that, surprisingly, the Gluttons' coach hadn't leapt in to boast about the scoreline. He glanced to his left.

The halfling's seat was empty, save for a half-eaten sandwich.

In the darkness beneath the stand, Squiggie belched loudly.

"Best mascot we've ever had," said Fourtooth. " I swear to Sigmar, he really is."

"He's got the ball!" one of the human supporters shouted.

Edwyrd looked up.

Luggen had the ball under his arm and was dashing for the endzone. In his path stood the imposing bulk of the tree-man.

Dodge it, Edwyrd prayed, please, please, dodge it.

The tree-man swung its branch in the orc's direction. Luggen hopped into the air, too late, surely, impossibly too late-

And then the branch had missed, uselessly, thwacking into the earth as Luggen dived for the line-

Touchdown. The referee's whistle blew. Edwyrd's heartbeat thudded. Touchdown.

And as Luggen got to his feet, Edwyrd could have sworn he turned towards the stands and gave a curt, acknowledging nod.

As the full-time whistle blew, Edwyrd got to his feet. The Oldboyz finished politely applauding their opponents, as he'd taught them, all of whom were lying in various states of physical collapse around the pitch, and rumbled over towards the stand.

Grobb was still punching the air.

"Kotch!" he yelled, "we won, Kotch! We won!"

The cry was taken up by the rest of the team.

"Well," Edwyrd said, awkwardly, "not quite. We drew."

Fourtooth nudged him.

"Best not to correct them," he said. "Won's easier to pronounce, for one thing."

Someone tapped on Edwyrd's shoulder. He turned around.

One of the human supporters was looking at him, curiously.

"Excuse me," he said, "...what's your team called, again?"

"Right," Edwyrd said, paying the delivery ogre, "that's eight large Elf-And-Fungus Pizzas, two large Morky Meatys, a whole roasted buffalo calzone, one small Pepperoni, a bucket of Snotling Diplings, and an extra-large crate of Rotgut beer..."

He felt curiously elated.

Who'd have thought, he asked himself, when I moved to the human lands, that within a month I'd have eleven orcs sitting in my front room?

Certainly, his house hadn't been built for greenskins, and there were already some unintentional elbow marks in the walls that he might have to explain to his landlord later, but still...

He had a team. A team that could score touchdowns. Which meant that he was a real coach.

Grobb helped him carry the food through to the front room, where the orcs were cheering wildly as Fourtooth and Squiggie danced a jig , hand in leg, with one another.

Edwyrd sat down next to Luggen, who was perched awkwardly on the three-dwarf sofa.

"Great touchdown," he said.

Luggen nodded.

"So tell me," Edwyrd continued, "where'd you learn to run like that?"

Luggen turned towards him. The light caught the enormous scar running from his forehead down to his cheek.

"From me last team," he said.

Three hours later, the party was in full swing. Dik Der Cunnin' had produced, out of nowhere, a bottle of finest mould brandy that he claimed he'd been weaned on, and it was making everyone extremely dizzy. Wazguttle had his arm around Edwyrd's shoulder as he explained to him the exact difference between Gork and Mork; Squiggie was retching up a very small shoe onto the carpet.

"Ho, ho, my boys, well done!" someone said.

Leopold Bruckheim was standing in the doorway. He beamed.

"A victory, I hear," he continued. "Well done, indeed."

"Actually..." Edwyrd began, and then thought better of it.

Bruckheim looked at him.

"Well, coach," he said, "do you still think your team iz not ready for ze Chaos Cup?"

Edwyrd suddenly became aware that all eyes were on him.

"Der...Chaos Cup," Flirksmasher said, slowly. "Like..der real fing?"

Bruckheim rummaged in his coat pocket and produced a ragged sheet of paper.

"I've signed you up for ze play-offs," he announced. "Zey've just heard zat an elven forest has been demolished, unt its inhabitants horribly butchered, so zey suspect it vill be held there. Near the mountains of Kratek – isn't zat where you grew up, Edwyrd?"

Edwyrd felt his blood beginning to drain away from his face.

"So..." Wazguttle said, staring at him, "Is we goin' to der Chaos Cup, kotch?"

"Of course not," Edwyrd mumbled, feebly. "We're not ready, Waz...we...we need to..."

"Nonsense," shouted Bruckheim. "I zink you're ready! Do you zink you're ready, lads?"

The roar was deafening. And from out of it grew a chant,

"Chaos Cup! Chaos Cup! Chaos Cup!"

"Wiv you at der helm, kotch," Grobb yelled, "we can't lose!"

Edwyrd blanched. Wazguttle's grip around his neck was extremely tight.

"Yes..." he muttered, trying to smile. "Chaos Cup. Chaos Cup."


	3. Chapter 3

The squeaking echoed through the Chambers of Alteration.

"Milady...milady?"

"Oh, come in, Fellorian," the Lady said, carelessly. She leant back against her throne. "Our friend here was just explaining how he managed to concede that touchdown against the Lowdown Rats. Weren't you?"

A small puddle of yellow pus that had once been the Lady's star blitzer attempted to ooze awkwardly away over the black flagstones.

The Lady set her hounds on it.

"Now," she said, sitting back once again. "Fellorian, you had news, I believe. Is it about the Chaos Cup?"

Fellorian winced and ran a greasy hand over his bald head.

"Milady," he ventured. "Our spies report that the Bretonnian knights are drawing back from their borders. One swift attack; a mere two legions-"

Something in the Lady's body language must have altered, because the hounds immediately looked up, their red eyes aflame. They licked their lips, almost as one. Fellorian took a step backwards.

The Lady smiled. Her black lips curved upwards.

"Now, now, Fellorian," she cooed, "you're not being logical. If I send two legions to Bretonnia, there'll be nobody to fill the stadiums in the play-offs. Now, tell me there's news about the Chaos Cup. There must be. You'd be quaking with fear a little more if you hadn't heard anything."

Fellorian sighed. It wasn't easy trying to conquer the known world when your powerful overlord was a sports nut.

"Yes, milady," he said. "An elven forest has been demolished in the forests of Kratek; it appears, indeed, that the god Tzeentch has chosen that spot for the cup. Even now the bodies of a thousand elves are being stripped of their flesh by the raw force of Chaos in order to construct the stadium."

He corrected himself, silently; it wasn't easy trying to conquer the known world when your dark and mercurial god was a sports nut.

The Lady absent-mindedly stretched out her long nails, and stroked the nearest hound across its spiny back.

"And there's something else," she purred. "You're full of yourself. You have a gift for me."

Damn it, Fellorian thought, how does she do it?

"Yes, milady," he said. "Since so many of your, ah, team, have incurred your quite rightful wrath, I, er...well, the sorcerers have been working on something. Something new."

He clapped his hands.

And the doors swung open.

The Lady gazed up, a little critically, at her new team.

"Only eleven of them?" she asked. "What about substitutes?"

"Milady," Fellorian said, and a slow, murderous grin spread across his scarred face, "with this team, you're not going to need any substitutes."


	4. Chapter 4

(Thanks very much for the kind comments, everyone – as you may have figured out from the last update, I'm going to be posting in shorter 'scene' chapters from now on, as the formatting keeps taking out my line breaks...)

The news had spread; the Chaos Cup was to be held in Kratek.

All about the town, husbands kissed their wives goodbye and coaches yelled themselves hoarse looking for a cart willing to travel the many leagues north. The horse-dealer was already doing a roaring trade. And in the ascetic monastery to Sigmar, twenty novices broke down their own gates from within using a home-made battering ram and fled, the colours of the Skavenblight Scramblers painted over their tonsures.

The Orctown Oldboyz assembled just after dawn, outside the rugged cave network cut into the hillside that the team called home.

Edwyrd shivered. On top of everything else, he was certain he was starting to come down with a cold.

Wazguttle sauntered over from the carts.

"Coupla fings, kotch," he said. "Nummer one...dem fings. Dem fings wiv four legs."

Edwyrd followed his jabbed finger.

"The horses, you mean?" he asked.

Wazguttle nodded.

"Right. Dey're too small. Dey ain't gonna carry none of us."

Edwyrd had to admit that he had a point. Bruckeheim had clearly skimped on the expenses when it came to the team's transportation; the carts looked rickety, and the ponies at the reins were skinny creatures that eyed up the enormous orcs surrounding them with an air of panic.

"Fing, uh, two," Wazguttle said, "it Badpipes."

"Badpipes?" Edwyrd asked.

"Der troll."

"Oh."

"Badpipes gone shamblabout," Wazguttle continued. "We dunno where 'e's gone."

Edwyrd attempted some mental translation.

"Shamblabout," he said. "You mean...like walkabout?"

"Yoo's 'it der nail on der goblin's 'ead," said Wazguttle. "We fink e'll just follow our smell all der way to der cup."

He gave Edwyrd a confiding wink.

"I bin tellin' 'im that if we win der Chaos Cup, 'e gets ter eat yers," he added. "So I fink 'e'll be back soon enuff. Anyway, I fort yoo shud know."

"Fantastic," Edwyrd said, a little weakly.

Wazguttle nodded cheerfully and wandered off. He swung a great fist, absent-mindedly, at the tiny goblin scuttling over the ground.

What was that little thing even doing here? Edwyrd wondered. It certainly wasn't on the team. An ordinary-sized Blood Bowl-approved ball would crush it flat.

The orcs were beginning to heave themselves up into the carts. One of the horses gave an agonised wheeze and almost buckled under the weight there and then.

Fourtooth yelled, from behind Edwyrd,

"Aye, up, coach! Wait for us!"

He was staggering up the hillside, two huge wicker baskets clutched in either hand. Behind him, Grobb was bearing a great tun on one shoulder and wheeling a small trolley behind him. The big orc, Edwyrd noticed, was actually sweating.

"Vital medical supplies," Fourtooth explained, putting the baskets down and beginning to wheeze. Grobb dropped his barrel. It made an indentation several inches deep in the earth.

"Do we...really need quite so many vital medical supplies?" Edwyrd asked.

Fourtooth chortled. His grubby fingers snaked behind his ear for his pipe.

"Oh, no, chief," he said, "they ain't for us. Y'see, sometimes team apothecaries don't turn up, or they run out of equipment – so I keep this stuff for the opposition to borrow off us."

He nodded at the tun.

"So that's full of hydrochloric acid," he said, "and those baskets are full of sponges soaked in ether, and I've got a dozen water bottles topped up with Vicious Killer Man-Eating Water Boatmen, and-"

Edwyrd said,

"Er-"

"I know, I know," Fourtooth said, holding up his hands. "You don't have to tell me. 'Fourtooth, you're a tactical genius.'"

He lit his pipe, triumphantly.

"Fourtooth," Edwyrd murmured slowly, scratching his head, "as a priest of Sigmar...how do you think your god would, er, react to this tactical genius?"

Fourtooth grinned, as if this was a silly question to ask.

"Same thing he says," he replied, "to me in my head, every night when I lay myself down in my cot – 'Fourtooth, everything you do is quite all right by me. Just you keep on going."

Edwyrd gave up. Religion, it seemed, was a tricky sort of thing.

"Anyway," Fourtooth said, hefting the baskets again with a grunt, "I'll just load these up."

Grobb, with a barely audible moan, gave Edwyrd a pleading look as he lifted the tun back up and staggered after Fourtooth.

A tap on his helmet. He glanced around.

Three humans were standing, a little nervously, behind him. One of them he recognised from their last match. He nodded back.

"Hello, sir dwarf," he said politely."I'm Gavin, and these are my brothers, Evan and Barrie. We were just wondering...are the Oldboyz going to the Chaos Cup?"

Edwyrd only grimaced very slightly at the name.

"Yes," he said. "We're taking a tour up through Schwarzkopf, and then we should be in Kratek around the start of next month."

"Do you...do you have a tour schedule," Gavin asked. "Because me and Evan, we're headed up that way, so we might come watch if we're in the area, and Barrie – say hi, Barrie-"

"Hi," said Barrie.

"-he's a Bright Wizard, see, so he could try and pick you up on Cabalvision for the lads to watch at home..."

"Sure," Edwyrd said, almost dazed. "Sure."

He fumbled in his pocket for a scrap of paper.

I have fans, he thought. We have fans. Three of them, to be precise.

It may not be the Reikland Reavers, but it's certainly a start.


	5. Chapter 5

Just outside Marienburg, they cooked and ate the horses, and the Oldboyz took turns at pulling the carts.

"'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO..."

Luggen sat back. He glanced around twice to make sure nobody was looking at him, and then unfolded the sheet of paper he'd cut out of SPIKE Magazine.

He'd managed to decipher the article title with some help from Fourtooth. And now he repeated to himself, over and over, turning the words about in his head with relish.

MOTLEY HORDE SETS OUT FOR CHAOS CUP. MOTLEY HORDE SETS OUT FOR CHAOS CUP.

The sketch below the squiggly words depicted the Horde itself. A shambling assembly of all sorts of creatures – Orcs, pointy-ears, stunties – and, standing in their centre, a grinning 'umie. An 'umie with a long beard, one eye, and four thick scar-lines criss-crossing his face.

Luggen folded the sheet of paper up again between his four great fingers with surprising care, deposited it beneath his breastplate, and went back to sleep.

Edwyrd, sitting in the cart in front, was composing a letter. He scrawled, quickly, using the slumbering Dik Der Cunnin's back as a desk.

'My dearest Father. I write to you to let you know that I will be returning home to Kratek-'

Cross out.

'Father. Guess who has his very own Blood Bowl team? It's the same dwarf who you said was, and I quote, "pursuing a fool's errand for the sake of some ridiculous hobby"-'

Cross out.

There was a slight shuffling sound, and Dok McKlowd pulled himself up alongside Edwyrd. The rank stench of fungus brew and explosive chemicals followed the little orc about, as always.

"Mmm?" Edwyrd said, glancing around. "Oh, sorry, Dok – I was just writing a-"

He looked down towards the item clutched in the good Dok's hands.

A scarf. A woollen knitted scarf, in three colours; blue, white and black.

"Is that...for me?" Edwyrd asked.

"Yup," said the Dok.

Edwyrd reached out and touched it, reverently. It was incredibly soft.

"Did you...knit it yourself?"

"Yup."

"How?"

"Yup."

Edwyrd wrapped it snugly around his neck.

"Today I'm a real member of this team," he said. "Thank you, Dok."

Dok McKlowd gibbered excitedly and clapped his hands.

The tender moment was interrupted, unfortunately, by an onset of violent, bestial screaming in the near distance.

Fourtooth roused himself drowsily, and murmured,

"Hullo...isn't that the barmaid from the Flayed Hare?"

Edwyrd turned around a little too quickly as a blur in a mud-stained, torn dress sprinted past the carts.

A moment later, a man waving a sword ran after her.

"Catch her!" he yelled. "Nobody enters the territory of Roberto the Bandit and lives!"

He came to a rather abrupt halt. Then he turned, and seemed to notice the Oldboyz, who were staring at him curiously, for the first time.

"I mean," he squeaked, his voice rising several frightened decibels, "we can always make exceptions."

He hesitated, and then turned and ran back the way he came.

Wazguttle reached lazily out of the cart, picked Roberto the Bandit up, and shook him until bits fell off. Then he threw him at one of the other bandits.

Edwyrd was confused to see the muddied blur dash back once again, making for the third and final bandit, who'd dropped his pike and had curled up into the foetal position in the hope of going unseen.

The barmaid from the Flayed Hare lifted the bandit up in one dainty hand, and head-butted him. She was shrieking a wordless battle-ululation which Edwyrd, in a state of sudden adoration, thought sounded extremely beautiful.

"ATTACK A POOR DEFENCELESS WOMAN, WOULD YOU?" she roared, and slammed the man's head repeatedly against a tree-trunk.

Some of the Oldboyz burst into spontaneous applause.

Edwyrd hopped down off the cart, and approached the girl, who was even now attempting to twist the prone bandit's arm off.

"Good job we were here to rescue you, then," he ventured.

The barmaid didn't seem to notice him. She stamped down, hard, on something squishy.

"So," Edwyrd said, "um...can we offer you a lift anywhere?"

She twisted something, hard. There was a snap.

Edwyrd decided to try one last time.

"Ma'am?"

The barmaid looked up. Her face was contorted with animal fury.

"WHAT'S THE MATTER, SHORT STUFF?" she yelled. "YOU WANT SOME TOO?"

Edwyrd took a step back.

"No, no, no," he said, very quickly. "I just wanted to check that you were all right. My...my name's Edwyrd, and this is my team – we – er – we just wanted to help. Not that you need help, obviously."

The barmaid gave a little laugh at that, and tossed back her long silvery hair. Some of the violence seemed to drain from her face.

"Thank you for your help," she said. "And I didn't mean to snap at you. I can get a little over-excited."

Beneath her boot, the bandit's hand began to spasm uncontrollably.

"My name's Cressida," she continued.

She held out a blood-stained hand for Edwyrd to shake.

"Listen," Edwyrd repeated, refusing it as politely as possible, "we're heading up towards Schwarzkopf...um...would you like to hitch a lift with us?"

Cressida smiled.

"Yes," she said. "I'd like that very much."


	6. Chapter 6

The Oldboyz lined up on the snowy Schwarzkopf field.

"Not bad," Edwyrd said, cheerfully, picking up the ball and tossing it up into the air. "Really not a bad practice at all, lads. We should be well set for tomorrow when we play the university team."

A row of blank green faces.

"Er, that's a sort of place where you learn things," he added quickly. "What I'd really like to see, though, is a little more speed on the wings. Grobb's doing great, but Dok…unless you can get that jetpack a little more, er, consistent, we might have to consider jettisoning it for this match."

Dok McKlowd's face lit up.

"Oh, fanks, kotch!" he said.

"That means we might have to not use it," Edwyrd explained.

Dok McKlowd's face sank.

"The problem is," Edwyrd continued, "that you lot are great at hitting things. Nobody's disputing that. But…if something's moving faster than you, how do you get to it in order to hit it?"

"Frow somefing at it," Dik Der Cunnin' muttered.

Edwyrd conceded that maybe this was a good idea.

"But if there's nothing handy lying around to throw-" he went on.

"Frow a spektatuh at it."

"_My point is_," Edwyrd said, rather more loudly, "that we need another runner. So we can get the ball up to them quickly if we have to. Someone speedy-"

He threw the ball up again. It barely had time to slow and fall before it was snatched up, mid-air, by a spinning silver blur.

Cressida landed, neatly, on her feet, and began to run. She touched down at the other end of the pitch a couple of seconds later.

She jogged back to the Oldboyz, grinning.

"We used to play Blood Bowl at school in my hometown, y'know," she said. "The Fourth Dorm Fiends, they used to call us. I remember, at the end-of-term matches, when I took down Mildred Jassburg, in the Upper Sixth, and shattered five of her ribs…good times." She frowned. "What're you all staring at?"

"Play fer us," said Grobb.

Edwyrd blanched.

"What?" he said. "No, no, no. That was very impressive, Miss Cressida," he conceded, "but you're…no, she's not going to play for us."

"Nothing wrong with having a human on an Orc team," Fourtooth said, scratching at his beard. "Not in principle, anyway. The Motley Horde takes just about anybody, for instance."

At the mention of the name 'Motley Horde', at the very back of the group, Luggen raised his head.

"It's not that simple," Edwyrd snapped. "You lot are big, tough Orcs. She's only human. She can't take as much punishment as you. What if she got killed?"

"We could paint 'er green," Wazguttle suggested.

"You could paint her green," yelled Edwyrd, "but she still wouldn't be an Orc!"

Cressida laid a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Look," she said. "Give me a chance, master dwarf. Sigmar knows it'd be more fun than my former plan of trying to play barmaid up at the Chaos Cup. You ever tried to serve wine to a Beast of Nurgle? Not a nice way to die. You need a player; I need a job." She glanced around the Oldboyz. "How much are you being paid, anyway?"

"Ev'ry munf we get a shiny new pebble," Grobb said, with apparent pride.

Edwyrd ran his hand over his eyes. Once again, he was beginning to sense that he was losing control of events.

"Fine," he said. "Look. We'll get you a helmet and some kit, and…you can trial for us." He shook his finger vaguely up at Cressida. "You're just lucky it's only a university team we're going up against," he added.


	7. Chapter 7

Edwyrd was trying to help Cressida into her new team kit. It was a little difficult; the Oldboyz tended to wear leather strips and metal plates covering their shoulders and their legs, whereas a human girl needed…rather more sensitive areas taken care of. And besides, it was rather hard not to look.

At last, sweeping up her mane of silver hair, she donned the blue-and-black helmet and stood, triumphant.

"How do I look?" she murmured.

Edwyrd tried, ineffectually, to still his beating heart.

"Um," he said, and gave up. "Magnificent. Completely magnificent."

She smiled, rather sweetly, and patted him on the head. To his surprise, this didn't irritate him quite as much as he'd have thought.

"Now, remember," he clucked, "stay on the wings. Don't get into contact if you can avoid it, and always be ready for a quick pass. Keep your head low and if you get tackled, don't stretch out your arms- Dok, will you stop that? We're not doing the whole 'painting her green' thing."

Cressida replied, wincing as another handful of green paint was slapped onto her face,

"Oh, no, let him. Feels like warpaint. And stop worrying about me, Edwyrd. Sigmar's bottom, it's only the local university team!"

Wazguttle poked his head in through the tentflaps.

"Uvver team's 'ere, kotch," he said. "An' we've caught Badpipes der troll just in time. Fink 'e ate sumfink funny out in der woods, 'cos 'e's swayin' a bit, but uvverwise 'e's right as rain."

His big brow wrinkled in thought.

"You know," he said, "d'uvver team ain't what I'd fort. Fort dey'd be 'umies and dat."

Edwyrd looked up sharply.

"What d'you mean?" he asked. "What are they, then?"


	8. Chapter 8

The grey-kitted zombies lurched across the pitch. One of them almost got to the ball before it was taken out by a fast, chittering, rotten-looking creature on all four legs. By the endzone, two armoured, skeletal figures seemed to be testing their weight against a shambling mass of oozing purple flesh that appeared to have been stitched together from various sources.

Edwyrd sidled over to a desiccated skeleton in a black robe who stood, watching from the sidelines.

"Er…are you the university coach?" he ventured.

The thing turned. Yellow, burning eyes.

"_I am the Master of Schwarzkopf University_," the skeleton said, its teeth clacking dully against one another.

"Right," said Edwyrd. "Right. Um…I was sort of expecting a human team."

The Master shook its head.

"_It was many centuries ago_," it said, "_that our hallowed halls were set aflame by the machinations of the sorcerer Dexras. And it was in that dread year that we rose once more, our studies incomplete, and set to work, that we might attain our grand goal of eternal life – true eternal life, not the mere shadow that you see before you. But we also," _it added,_ "have a strong commitment to sporting activities._"

"Fair enough," Edwyrd said, and sauntered back to the Oldboyz huddle. "Well, they're undead all right," he told the assembled orcs. "Which might make this tricky. And those ghouls on the wings…well, they'll be a nightmare to handle. All right…since we won the toss, I think it'd be best if we received and went for the Eagle's Talons play."

A gangling, goof-tusked Black Orc Edwyrd vaguely remembered as being called Bob Blacktooth raised his hand.

"What dat, kotch?"

"It's the one where you three start hitting things," Edwyrd said. "And then you four surround the ballcarrier. And then all five of you start hitting things."

There was a collective murmur of understanding.

Edwyrd gazed up at Badpipes. The great yellow troll was looking a little vaguer even than usual, swaying on its feet, snot dripping from both nostrils. "Does, er, he know the play?" he asked.

"Dat ain't how trolls work, kotch," said Wazguttle. "You jus' point 'im towards der uvver team an' 'ope 'e 'its 'em."

Edwyrd gave up.

"All right," he said. "Play well, all of you – and look after Cressida. Remember, she's your team-mate. No trying to eat her. 'ERE WE GO," he began to yell, "'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO-"

Twelve verses later, the Oldboyz charged out onto the pitch.

Edwyrd strolled over to the stands and took his seat between Fourtooth and Squiggie. A second later, a chill of pure terror ran up his spine. He turned around.

The seats were filled with spirits; wailing grey ghosts, blood-stained young humans in white, translucent gowns, blue-tinged, faint spectres that seemed constantly on the verge of melting away into the air.

"_The students do like to cheer our team on_," the Master said from further down the bench.

Edwyrd had a thought.

"What are your entry standards?" he asked. "Because I've got a nephew back in Kratek. Smart kid, good at Blood Bowl. Maybe he'd like the curriculum here."

"_We have our own entrance exams_."

"Ah."

"_He would also have to be dead, of course_."

"Probably better not to, in that case."

"_Still_," the Master said, "_you should bring him to our Open Day. Let him look around for himself_."

On-pitch, the goblin referee was trying to get some kind of order together. Edwyrd could make out the tiny figure of Cressida, perched on the farthest wing, facing up towards one of the slathering ghouls.

Let no harm come to her, he prayed, please, let no harm come to her-

From behind him, there came the slow, rhythmic sound of a thousand spirits clapping their hands together.

"DEATH. DEATH. DEATH. DEATH."

From the corner of the stand, he faintly made out a much fainter, raggedly determined little song;

"He's short! They're scary! They'll turn you all to jelly! It's the Oldboyzzzz, and Edwyrd Kettlebelly!"

Edwyrd gave the supporters a little wave and got a cheer in return.

And, just as he turned back to the pitch, the whistle blew.


	9. Chapter 9

Cressida's helmet slipped over her eyes at the exact moment when the ghoul struck her. She stumbled backwards, flailing, as a set of twenty furious claws dug into her armour, trying to prise it apart, shrieking, its pincer teeth digging in through the leather-

The weight lightened. She managed to tug the straps of her helmet loose, forcing it free, and gazed wildly about for her attacker.

Luggen gave her the shortest of nods before trundling back down the pitch in search of the ball. At her feet, the ghoul was making distressed little whimpering noises.

Cressida glanced back towards the stand, where she could clearly make out the figure of Edwyrd Kettlebelly. He was on his feet.

He's worried about me, she thought. Oh, Sigmar…why did I go along with this? Was I really trying to impress him?

Just stay alive. That's all you have to do. Be strong, like an orc. Be brave, like an orc.

Near the endzone, Grobb charged head-first into a howling, hairy apparition that was smacking Dok McKlowd about. Both of them fell over.

Not brave, she corrected herself. They're just too stupid to be scared.

She took a step forward and almost ran into a purple mountain. The great creature's eyes were aflame with an eerie green light. It raised a single fist, stitched together from rotten flesh.

"FORTES FORTUNA ADIUVAT," roared the Dean.

Cressida ducked, and ran.

Dodging past the fumbling advances of a decapitated zombie, she finally caught sight of the ball, in the hands of an armoured skeleton that was currently trying to kick the fallen Wazguttle in the groin. She took the horrid thing's head in both hands and thrust her knee up towards it, hard. A cracking sound, followed by an appreciable moan of delight from the crowd.

And then the ball tumbled down, halted by her feet.

She stared at it, as if unsure what to do.

"Fink you're s'posed ter pick it up," Wazguttle said, from the ground.

"Could be wrong, though," he added, and fell back.

Cressida leant down, scooping up the ball in one hand, and began to run. A howling ghoul leapt towards her, but had its trajectory suddenly altered by Flirksmasher, who caught it by the leg and swung it like a bolas in the opposite direction.

She kept running. A hand snatched hold of her ankle. An odd sound, and the pressure on her trouser leg didn't loosen, but her assailant seemed to have been left behind.

She kept running. The troll Badpipes was ahead, furiously smashing at the empty earth where an opponent might have been standing some considerable time ago. And beyond him, beyond the smashed body of a zombie, was the endzone-

"AB OBICE SAEVIOR IBIT-"

Cressida found herself being lifted, helplessly into the air. Enormous fingers had grabbed hold of her waist.

The Dean grinned dumbly at her.

"POST MORTEM NIHIL EST," he said. "IPSAQUE MORS NIHIL."

Cressida kicked furiously out at his face. Her boot took off quite a bit of flesh, without seeming to make an impression.

He raised his left hand, and snatched hold of her leg.

"ABIISTIS, DULCES CARICAE," he said, and prepared to pull.

Luggen leapt, with the smallest of grunts, onto the flesh golem's head, and, wrapping his legs around the Dean's neck, he proceeded to methodically hammer both fists in the general direction of the monster's brain.

The Dean let go of Cressida's leg and tried to rip off Luggen's arms instead, but was prevented from doing so by Dik Der Cunnin', who grabbed hold of the enormous swinging hand and began to pull off the fingers.

Cressida, hanging limply, still clinging on to the ball, turned just in time to see Badpipes shambling towards her, a look of sheer delight on his snot-coated, stupid face.

He struck the Dean in the middle of the golem's body, with arms extended in a manner that suggested he was actually trying to hug him.

"Oh, no," Cressida murmured, feeling the Dean's weight shift uncertainly to one side. "oh, no…"

All five of them swung, together, in a circle, like the most gruesome of spinning tops, and finally, they toppled.

Cressida felt the Dean's grip on her finally slip. Pulling out, she dropped and rolled, stretched out a single hand - and dropped the ball onto the ground over the painted chalk line.

The whistle blew.

"TOUCHDOWN!" she yelled, jubilant, feeling the adrenaline course through her. "TOUCHDOWN! I SCORED A TOUCHDOWN!"

She turned back towards the pitch.

Luggen and Dik were standing over the flesh golem's broken body, regarding it with some curiosity.

"Fink it's dead?" Dik asked.

Luggen stamped a couple of times on the Dean's head.

"Reckon so," he grunted, appreciatively.


	10. Chapter 10

Edwyrd was laughing. He was laughing so hard that he thought, at any moment, he might explode – as, he was told, happened to his Great Uncle Fitz after a few two many flagons of Dragon's Head brandy.

"They did it!" he muttered, aloud, scurrying over the grass. "They actually did it!"

The Oldboyz came sauntering to meet him across the battered pitch with an air of unmistakeable pride. Wazguttle, heavily bruised and with one eye closed, was carrying Cressida on his shoulders.

"She an orc," Grobb kept saying. "She ain't no humie. She an orc."

She hopped off, and gave Edwyrd a smile.

"Told you I'd be all right," she said. She looked a little pale.

Edwyrd felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around.

The Master gave him a friendly grin.

"_An excellent match_," the skeleton said. "_A good time was had by all. May I invite your team to the Great Hall for a post-game feast_?"

"Thank you," Edwyrd said, taking its hand. He glanced past him towards the endzone, where two werewolves were attempting to scrape up the remains of the Dean. "Sorry about your golem," he said.

The Master shrugged.

"_He'll be all right_," it said. "_You can't keep a good man down_."


	11. Chapter 11

"Edwyrd," Cressida said, on the cart the next morning, "what was it the Master whispered in your ear as we were leaving?"

Edwyrd scratched his head.

"Um," he said, "it was something like, _The gift of foresight brings me no joy, my friend. A great and terrible new evil awaits you at the Chaos Cup; a threat to the fabric of our very reality. Before the season is out, one of your number will join us amongst the dead_."

"Tch," Fourtooth said, lighting his pipe. "Academics, eh? Always lording their superior knowledge off us normal folks."

Cressida gave Edwyrd a little nudge.

"So," she said, "what's next for us?"

Edwyrd checked his tour itinerary.

"Well," he said, "we head north next, to a mountaintop where we're booked in against a rat-men team…then there's the forest elves…and then we should be getting in to Kratek at the start of next week. We register for the Chaos Cup, then we should have a few days to acclimatise before the play-offs begin."

There'll be Cabalvision, he thought. My father will be watching. Oh, my.

"'ERE WE GO," the Oldboyz shouted. "'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO-"


	12. Chapter 12

Pith'igor, Head Operations Officer in charge of preparations for the Chaos Cup, was worried. The enormous stadium was only half-complete, and they'd almost run out of elves. Besides which, all four Dark Gods had already made their presence felt in the area by, respectively, giving construction workers a case of insatiable bloodlust, a sudden, horrid plague, a bevy of mysterious women that turned every man they touched into goo, and, in four cases, transforming them into shapeless abominations.

Not that it wasn't wonderful, he added quickly to himself, to have the Lords of Chaos showing their appreciation for the sport…but their little games were making it rather hard for him to get anything done. A couple of priests had attempted to get a message across to them, politely asking them to slake their boredom elsewhere; their tortured remnants were discovered splattered across the roofs of the player-village the next day.

"No, you damned fools," he yelled. "The buttress needs to go in first – that's a spine, you fool, not a femur! And what do you want?"

Fellorian smiled at him.

"Greetings, beastman," he said. "I'm here to register my…ah…my employer's team."

Pith'igor snorted.

"Registration doesn't begin till next week," he said. "Come back then."

He couldn't help noticing, behind the pale, dark-robed human, standing a little distance off…eleven towering shapes. Each one clad in a royal-looking purple hood and cloak, each one at least eight feet tall and of exactly equal height. Each one, their faces shrouded in shadow, turned towards him.

"The thing is," Fellorian said, "that the stupid b – ah, that my employer was very insistent that I leave plenty of time for registration."

He gazed back across the deserted, scorched wilderness where the elven forests had once stood.

"She, ah, thought there might be a queue," he added.

"Not my problem," Pith'igor said. The eleven shapes were starting to unnerve him. "Come back next week, I said."

Fellorian raised a hand.

The eleven shapes, without hesitation, took a step forward. Pith'igor heard a strange noise – a kind of whirring. And a clunk.

Eleven silver blades slipped out from beneath the purple robes.

Pith'igor glanced back towards his workers. It began to occur to him that he'd driven them rather hard over the last few weeks, whipping them and maiming them and so on…and that they might not necessarily be on his side if it came to a fight. One or two of them were grinning.

"Look," he quavered. "Why don't I, er, write down your team name now, and, um, when registration begins, I'll sign you up myself? First thing. I promise."

"That would be very kind," said Fellorian.

Pith'igor fumbled for a scrap of paper.

"So, um," he said, "…which team are you?"

Fellorian told him.

Pith'igor looked back at the eleven identical figures. None of them had moved.

"The Motley Horde?" he ventured. "They, um, don't look very motley."

Fellorian grinned.

"No," he said. "Change of, ah, management."


	13. Chapter 13

"_Good morning to you, sports fans! Bob and I are standing on the field of the brand-new stadium for this year's Chaos Cup. The grass is being mown, the chalk lines are being set, and we're all getting ready for what should be an epic, gore-filled tournament!"_

"_That's right, Jim. Registrations open tomorrow morning – and our latest scoop for you, like the proverbial Beast of Nurgle, is a big 'un. The rumour on the underground grape-vine is that the Orcland Raiders will not, repeat, will not be participating in the Chaos Cup this year. Inside sources report that the team coach Urgitz has gone suddenly insane due to waking up in the middle of camp and finding his entire side horribly butchered by an unknown force, with an expression of indescribable terror on each of their faces."_

"_We-ell, who isn't a little mad in this game, Bob? Ha-_ha_!"_

"_Urgitz actually gave a public statement after the rumours reached the press. He said, 'The eleven silent assassins. The burning orb. The crack in the firmament. The star-spawn of Nuffle. All of you are dead. You're all dead!' And, without even stopping to take questions, he then proceeded to hurl himself from the Kratek clifftop, splitting his skull open on the rocks far below."_

"_You knew Urgitz, Bob…what d'you make of all that?"_

"_Urgitz has always been a strategist, Jim. There's a plan here, we can be sure of that. It'll be interesting to see where he goes from here."_

"_Okey-dokey, then. Join us after these messages, when we'll be taking a behind-the-scenes look at the opening ceremony the Cup's organisers have planned for us, including the ritual sacrifice of an elven princess inside a burning wicker model of the trophy itself, and Bob will be giving us his predicted favourite to win-"_

"_Chaos All-Stars."_

"_Oh, that's just great, Bob. Really professional sporting journalism, right there-"_

The Lady switched off the Cabalvision set.

"The players," she said aloud. "We _are_ in control of them, aren't we?"

"Of course we are, milady," Fellorian answered, from the shadows in the corner of the tent. "I have them entirely under my power. You can be certain, ah, of that."

This reply seemed to satisfy the Lady; but only for an instance.

"What I don't understand," she added, with a sudden petulance, "is why we can't simply kill_ every _other team in the tournament."

Fellorian chuckled mirthlessly.

"We cannot, ah, kill _every_ team in the tournament, milady," he said, "because of the small but vital difference between cheating and gamesmanship."

"Which is?"

"Whether or not, ah, they can prove you've done it."


	14. Chapter 14

"Good game," Edwyrd said, breathless. "You kept them down, and didn't let them chuck the ball about too much. Just one thing. One tiny thing. When I told you to form into a tunnel as your opponents were leaving the pitch at the end of the match, I wanted you to applaud them. _Not_ use the strategic advance of surrounding them on all sides to attack them without warning and beat them to death."

An arrow whistled past his head. He kept running.

"Dey were only elves, kotch," Grobb said.

"Elves have feelings too," Edwyrd chided him, ducking under a low-hanging tree branch. "Feelings…and…deadly projectiles."

"Look on the bright side," Cressida said. She leapt nimbly up onto a fallen trunk. "This is great agility training. Badpipes, er…are you all right?"

The troll, who had lifted up the cart in two massive hands, glanced at her, smiled, and shrugged. He had an arrow sticking through his head.

"I don't think it hit anything that matters," Edwyrd said. He dared to glance back. "Thank the gods, they're falling back. Is everyone all right? Nobody's missing?"

He slowed to a walk. The Oldboyz met his pace.

"I'm rather afraid," he said aloud, "that we're all going to have to have a serious discussion about discipline. Flirksmasher – how, in your opinion, could we prevent this from happening again?"

Flirksmasher considered this for some time.

"Burn down der forest," he said.

Soon afterwards, they stepped out of the boundary of trees and into the sunlit countryside. And, almost as one, they came to an abrupt halt.

"Well," Wazguttle grunted, "will you look at dat?"

Edwyrd's stomach churned. Far ahead in the foggy distance, past the grassy hilltops and pine forests, he could make out the great snowy peak of Kratek, and, below…a city of lights. At its heart, an enormous glowing dome. The stadium.

And, stretching out from one horizon to the other along the length of the cobbled merchant's trail they called Buckman's Road, was a convoy unlike anything Edwyrd had ever seen. Humans, lizardmen, elves, dwarves, orcs, species he didn't even recognise, all of them dressed in the vivid colours of their chosen team. By the roadside, hawkers, merchants and rogues peddled their wares, from team shirts to life-size cardboard models of Morg'N'Thorg. As the Oldboyz watched, a party of Bright Wizards in Reikland Reavers gear, cheering, let off a series of small aerial explosions that formed briefly into the shape of Griff Oberwald's face.

"We, er, we ain't gon' have ter go to der back of dat, are we, kotch?" asked Grobb.

Edwyrd thought about it.

"Nah," he said, at last. "We'll get cuts."


	15. Chapter 15

Pith'igor scribbled a note in his increasingly large journal, titled 'Kaus Kup – Riggisturd Tims'. Ahead of him, the queue was getting steadily longer.

If I can keep the pace just slow enough, he thought, maybe one or two of them will die of sunstroke by midday. That'd be amusing.

"All right," he said, "Lowdown Rats, you're registered for the Chaos Cup play-offs. You'll know your group number and first match details by tomorrow evening. Tent-space in the player village is currently a free-for-all, so I hope you brought plenty of weapons. Have a great tournament, and I'd just like to offer you my personal wish that you don't get mauled too horribly this year. Next!"

He glanced up.

"Ah, Prince Valeris," he drawled, greeting the haughty, blonde-haired high elf with a bow (as per the Blood Bowl regulations on inter-species courtesy during a tournament) and a barely perceptible sneer (as per Pith'igor's own personal beliefs that all elves, especially ones that dressed up in golden armour and ponced about with their nose in the sky, should be drawn, quartered, flayed alive, and have their kidneys placed on a platter as an appropriate sacrifice to Khorne). "How good to see you again. And is that the rest of the Elhuin Falcons with you? Splendid, sire, simply splendid."

Valeris gave him a look of absolute disgust.

"Put us down for the tournament, loathsome creature," he said, "before my companions and I decide to rid the earth of you and all of your kind once and for all. Be sharp about it, too."

Pith'igor, his hairy fists clenching and unclenching vigorously, beneath his desk, smiled, nodded, and said,

"Yes, your highness. Of course, your highness."

Valeris turned back to his teammates and began to talk loudly about how degrading it was to have to associate with the servants of Chaos. The elves tittered in agreement.

Pith'igor, lost in dreams in which he tore off Prince Valeris' pale, elegant hands and fed them to him, didn't notice the party of very large orcs dressed in blue and black until they were almost upon him. There seemed to be a couple of humans with them as well, and a dwarf, and they were strolling past the line without the slightest care for the angry shouts and missiles hurled in their direction. That was something you didn't see every day.

Wazguttle barged through the entirety of the Elhuin Falcons without a second thought, came up to the desk, and gave Pith'igor a friendly wave.

"'Ullo," he said. "We's der Oldboyz."

Pith'igor found himself, quite without meaning to, grinning. Maybe it was something to do with the look of scarlet outrage on Prince Valeris' face.

"And hello to you, sir," he said, with a respectful bob of his horns. "Is 'Oldboyz' your full team name, or…"

Prince Valeris cleared his throat.

"Uh…fink so," Wazguttle said, scratching his head. He seemed a little confused. "Or…mebbe…mebbe we're called 'Wazguttle'."

"Don't be daft, Waz," Edwyrd said, pushing his way forward after him. "We're the Orctown Oldboyz, sir Ungor. We should be in your lists under Leopold Bruckheim. B-R-"

Prince Valeris cleared his throat again, more loudly. Wazguttle gave him a sympathetic look.

"Got der plague?" he asked. "If you want, I could put you outta yer misery."

"Excuse me, _orc_," the elf snapped, "but we were here first!"

"Leopold Bruckheim," Pith'igor said, trying not to laugh. "Yes, here you are. All right, Master Kettlebelly…you're clear to go through. You'll know your group number and first match details by tomorrow morning. Tent-space is-"

Prince Valeris cried, loudly, stamping his foot,

"But we were here _first_! Is this some sort of conspiracy? Are all of the lesser races ganging up on us? I…I will not stand for this!"

Pith'igor shook his head.

"Calm down, your highness," he said, with a very deliberately infuriating calmness. "This will just take another moment."

Wazguttle leant down to Prince Valeris.

"_Dere_ is a queue, yoo know," he said, chidingly.

Prince Valeris struck him in the face, hard.

"Men!" he shouted. "Let's teach these brutes a lesson in respect! I…men?"

His expression altered as he heard the sound, unmistakeable to any Blood Bowl player, of a lithe elven body hitting the ground. Then another. Then, followed by an amusing squawk, a third.

Ten seconds later, Pith'igor came out from under his desk and gazed down at the groaning elves.

"They may have been first," he murmured, "but you were there last."

In the queue behind the Oldboyz, a rather large fight was breaking out. A teamful of High Elves had attempted to run towards the short-lived melee at the registration desk to help out their brethren, but had found their progress blocked by a Pro Elf team, who'd never liked their aristocratic cousins all that much anyway. A stray bunch had hit an Ogre, who'd woken up and sat on a Dwarf. From there, things had got a little complicated. A couple of reporters and a Cabalvision mage were hurrying towards the scene and setting up their equipment a safe distance away.

Edwyrd looked a little embarrassed.

"Er…sorry," he said. "We didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"Think nothing of it," Pith'igor said, grinning widely. "Think nothing of it at all, sir dwarf. Punching out the Elhuin Falcons…well, well, well. Your boys do know how to make an entrance, don't they?"

Under Edwyrd's feet, Prince Valeris mumbled through bruised lips something or other about an undying curse upon the dwarf's very soul.

"Right," said Pith'igor. "You're all booked up. I recommend you pitch your camp in the field on the south-eastern side of the player village. The deadly Mists of Nurgle are rare there, and it's currently only occupied by a bunch of halflings, who I suspect you'll make short work of. In you go, and the very best of luck to you in this Chaos Cup!"

"Thanks," Edwyrd replied. "Come on, then- oh, _ladz_, no…"

The Oldboyz were staring wistfully towards the raging, multi-species battle.

"Can we?" Grobb asked, jumping up and down. "Kotch, can we?"

Edwyrd sighed.

"All right," he said. "We'll meet you in the tavern at midday. And if one of you gets injured, I swear to Nuffle I'll bite all of your heads off."

The Oldboyz grinned, turned as one, and charged.

Edwyrd, Fourtooth and Cressida strolled on through the great pale bone-gates. From behind them, there was a strangled cry of,

"Oh, Sigmar, not the troll! Not the-"

"You'd think they'd get tired of fighting," Cressida murmured.

"Not Orcs," Fourtooth said proudly. "You know, the thing about Orcs is – watch out, coach, you're about to put your foot in something-"

Edwyrd hopped quickly out of the patch of tainted, rotten earth he was currently standing in. In the exact spot where he'd been about to step, something peculiar was forming. An odd shade of orange. A letter.

And, to its right, another letter. And another. And another.

Edwyrd, very confused, read,

_EDWYRD KETTLEBELLY STOP MISSIVE ARRIVING FROM DARAIN KETTLEBELLY STOP OPEN MISSIVE QUERY THIS ARCANE MESSAGE WAS BROUGHT TO YOU BY MAGEMAIL STOP STAY CONNECTED WITH MAGEMAIL EXCLAMATION MARK_

"Er…open?" he said.

The letters faded from sight on the horrid muddy ground. Others began to appear.

_DO I HAVE THIS WORKING RIGHT QUERY OH WAIT I CAN SEE IT NOW STOP EDWYRD MY BOY EXCLAMATION MARK READ IN THE 'ONE TO WATCH' SECTION OF THE KRATEK KHRONICLE THAT YOU WERE COACHING YOUR OWN BLOOD BOWL TEAM STOP I MUST SAY I THINK 'THE OLDBOYZ' IS AN ODD NAME FOR A DWARVEN TEAM STOP IN MY DAY TEAMS WERE CALLED THINGS LIKE 'BUGMAN'S BEST' STOP ANYWAY WE'RE A LITTLE SURPRISED YOU DIDN'T TELL US YOURSELF BUT SINCE YOU'RE IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD YOUR MOTHER AND I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE YOU AND YOUR CAPTAIN TO COME UP THE MOUNTAIN FOR DINNER WITH US TONIGHT STOP YOUR LOVING FATHER DARAIN KETTLEBELLY STOP_

The letters faded.

Edwyrd scratched his head. Then he turned.

Just in front of the gates, his captain had taken hold of two struggling, armoured dwarves and was banging their heads together repeatedly, a look of focused curiosity on his enormous face.

"Nuffle," Edwyrd asked the sky, "why do you hate me so?"


	16. Chapter 16

Edwyrd was astonished to find, in place of the old dirt road that led up to the Kratek city gates, an enormous steam-driven cable car system, its heavy stone pylons stretching out through the snowy trees.

At the entrance, a banner read, "THANKS FOR KILLING ALL THE ELVES, CHAOS CUP!" and a little dwarf was sitting reading a magazine.

He looked up as they approached.

"Only one orc or larger per car," he said. "We are not liable should you fall to your gruesome death on the mountainside below. Please enjoy your visit to Kratek, sports fans."

"I always thought dwarves were reclusive and didn't like strangers," said Cressida, stepping into the car.

"Not when it's tourist season," Edwyrd muttered sourly, hopping after her. Behind him, Wazguttle squeezed in through the doors. The cable car buckled.

Cressida smiled. She was wearing a plain white dress, not too immodest, simple without looking rough. She'd pinned back her hair into a neat ponytail and even applied some mud-based make-up. She was, Edwyrd thought, exactly the sort of girl you'd like to take home to meet your parents. Too tall, of course, but still. Whereas Wazguttle...

Well, Wazguttle had made an effort, clearly. He'd taken off his helmet and slicked back his little shock of black hair into a dignified-looking widow's peak. He'd even carefully removed every single dwarf bone from the heavy trophy necklaces dangling from his armour. And, even now, he wore a look of utter concentration as he muttered to himself, over and over again,

"Please ter meet yoo. Do not be alarmed, I am very polite ciffilised orcy-boy wiv many mannurz."

But he was still, inescapably, an orc. He was too big and green to be anything else.

Edwyrd leant back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Cressida, very gently, patted his knee.

"It's going to be all right, coach," she said. "It's going to go just fine."

'_**ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO**_

Kratek! City of ten thousand years! The fortress that endured the Under-Empire's century-long siege, the seat of the legendary dwarven blacksmith Beardicelli, the secret resting place of the Forgotten Heir. The great underground tunnels, stretching over miles of rock, lit by a million torches, each one bigger than a man! Kratek! The last dwarven wonder!

...was filled with banners, team placards, and hawkers' stands. Every tavern had its team colours emblazoned on the stone facade, along with a sign that read, 'MATCHES SHOWN HERE LIVE!' On the corner, next to a statue of Berg the Almighty stamping on a rat-man's head, was a tired-looking, topless dwarf with dyed red hair standing next to a placard that said, 'HAVE YOUR PICTURE TAKEN WITH THE TROLL SLAYER!'

Edwyrd, as they approached his old neighbourhood on Pommel Place, felt a pang of nostalgia.

That's where we used to play Street Blood Bowl, he thought. That's where I scored my very first touchdown. Pikker Rust kicked my head in afterwards for five solid minutes until they dragged him off. I wonder if you can still see the blood on the cobblestones?

And then, quite without warning, he was standing at his very own threshold. The old cobweb strands over the porch. The bottles the beerman left every morning at eight.

"I'm home," he thought, and knocked.

The oak door swung open. And there, a little greyer, a little smaller, almost shrunken, were his mother and father. Their smiles frozen on their faces as they saw their son with a enormous, heavily-armoured greenskin towering over him.

"Mum," he said. "Dad. This is...er...Cressida, a friend of mine. And this is Waz. My team captain."

His father stared.

"What?" he said. "Behind the orc?"

Wazguttle took a step forward, and removed his hands from behind his back. He was clasping something small, and round, and wrapped in greasy leather.

"Got yoos a littul somefing," he said, and held it out.

Edwyrd's mother hesitated, then reached out and took it.

"Er, thank you," she said.

"It an elf skull," Wazguttle said, proudly. "Gift-wrapped, furroh-ly cleaned. No brains on it or anyfing."

"Oh, goodness," Edwyrd's mother said. "How very nice. We'll be sure to put it on the mantle so everyone can see it. Isn't this a nice gesture, Darain?"

Edwyrd's father stood, very still, his eyes fixed on Waz.

"An ORC?" he said.

Cressida took Edwyrd's mother's hand.

"Edwyrd's told me so much about you," she said, gently. "It's lovely to meet you at last. You have a wonderful son."

"Oh, goodness," Edwyrd's mother replied, "Don't I know it? And...my dear, you're beautiful! You could almost be a dwarf! Edwyrd, you never told me-"

"_Mum_," Edwyrd hissed, not quite under his breath.

Edwyrd's father was still staring at Wazguttle, who, entirely oblivious to the tension in the air, was humming tunelessly to himself and gazing off into the middle distance.

Mrs Kettlebelly gave her son a sympathetic glance.  
"Look," she said, "why don't you...er...all come in? I'll just lay up the table. Darain...Darain, would you mind getting a beer for our guests?"

_**'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO**_

The silence at the Kettlebelly dining table endured long into the main course.  
"So," Edwyrd's mother asked Cressida, eventually, "Um...what did you do before getting into sports, my dear?"  
"I was a barmaid," Cressida replied.  
"Oh, lovely. Our eldest, Crag, he's a barman down in Middenheim. And the youngest boy, Darak, he's an Ironbeard, fighting in the mines-"  
"Takes after his dad," Edwyrd's father said, loudly. "Killing vermin. Rat-men. Greenskin. Goblins," he added, darkly, "and other such nuisances."  
Wazguttle, the fine silver cutlery resting precariously between his massive fists, said, quite cheerfully,  
"Oh, don't worry. I's killed loadsa grots meself. By sittin' on 'em, mostly. Din't mean to."  
"So...Waz..." Edwyrd's mother said. "Um...what did you do before you became a, erm, 'Blood Bowl' player? Am I saying that right?"  
Wazguttle hesitated. And blushed.  
"I, uh, wuz a Black Orc boy in Frikthrottla's Great Suvvern 'Orde," he said.  
"Ah, yes," said Edwyrd's father. "I remember reading about that. You stormed the mining-fortress at Durbarad, slaughtered the inhabitants, and then caught the Brotherhood of the Nine Heroes passing through the mines, ripped off their flesh, and ate them."  
A long, uncomfortable silence.  
"Uh, yeah," Wazguttle said. Then he brightened up. "Uh, but, but," he added, "it were only 'cos dey wuz bad dwarves. When, um, we wuz, uh, in der breach, we 'eard 'em sayin', 'We'z bad dwarves! We'z gonna find dem uvver dwarves an', uh, kill dem fur some reason.' So we 'ad to kill 'em 'cos of dat. And dem 'eroes, dey wuz up ter no good eiver. Wantin' ter destroy der Ring of Ultimate Evil. Dat's suspisush, yoo's got to admit dat."  
The quiet continued.  
"Edwyrd," Edwyrd's father said, sitting forward, "I advise you to tell your friend that the greenskin mind is not suited to subterfuge."  
Wazguttle said,  
"Wot?"  
"I mean," Edwyrd's father hissed, "that orcs aren't much good at thinking. The only thing they're good at, in fact, is killing innocent dwarves."  
"Darain," Edwyrd's mother murmured, quietly, "you're not being very nice, dear."  
"Nice?" snapped Edwyrd's father, getting to his feet. "Were the greenskins nice when they massacred our brethren on the Lower Crags? Were they nice when they decapitated his majesty Brak The Fourth and played bowls with it?"  
"Actually," Wazguttle said, "it were quite nice. We 'ad a turnamint wiv dat head. Lovely sunny day. Fun fer all der family."  
Edwyrd's father, trembling, jabbed a finger towards him.  
"I want this bloodthirsty monster," he said, "out of my house!"  
"Dad," said Edwyrd, "this _bloodthirsty monster _is my captain!"  
"All the more fool you!" Edwyrd's father shouted. Spittle flecked his grey beard. "A dwarf leading a band of orcs? It's ridiculous! It's shameful! And you even brought it here, to my home? We'll be the laughing stock of Kratek! I mean…I mean…can these savages even catch a ball?"

"Almos'," murmured Wazguttle. "It quite hard."

Edwyrd's father went quiet, and pale, as he always did when he was truly angry. And then he said, more quietly,

"I always knew this sporting obsession of yours could do you no good, but I kept my mouth shut and I let you ruin your life anyway…and, well, look where it's brought you, boy. _I have never, ever been as ashamed of you as I am now_."  
There was a loud 'clink' as Wazguttle's fork snapped cleanly in two and fell onto the table.  
Edwyrd shut his eyes for a moment. His fingers drummed at the edge of his plate.  
"And I've never been as ashamed of you, Dad," he said, "as I am now."  
He pushed back his chair, and got to his feet.  
Cressida did the same.  
Wazguttle, after a few seconds, took the hint and stood up. His head banged against the ceiling and made a crack.  
"Uh..." he mumbled. "Sorry."  
Edwyrd's mother just shook her head, her eyes on the floor.  
The last thing they heard Edwyrd's father yell as they trudged out through the front door was,  
"...don't you ever come back, boy! Don't you ever come back!"

'_**ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO**_

"Coach!" Cressida called. "Coach! Edwyrd, slow down!"  
Edwyrd strode ahead. His eyes were full of tears.  
And this, he thought, this is where I came up with the throw-dodge-pass triple-caging tactice that won us the Pommel Place Blood Bowl World Super Championship. I'd broken my arm the week before, playing Duggan and the boys from Brimstone Way, and my mates all tried to convince me that coaching a Blood Bowl team was just as good as playing in it. It wasn't, of course.  
And here, on the corner of Axehead Lane, my father grabbed me by the arm and dragged me away, in front of everyone, because it was getting too late and I hadn't done my Runes homework.  
And this-  
"There he is!"  
Edwyrd turned.

A small, pale man in sunglasses and a trench-coat, a couple of Cabalvision wizards in tow, was dashing towards him through the merchant stalls.  
"Jim Johnson," the small man said, as they approached, with a grin that revealed a pointed pair of fangs. "Cabalvision special reporter. You Kettlebelly?"  
"Er, yes," said Edwyrd.  
"Coach of the team that beat the Elhuin Falcons senseless at the registration gate and started a thirty-team pile-up in which eight players were killed?"  
"Er, yes," said Edwyrd.  
"Smashing," Jim replied. "They're already calling it the Chaos Cup Culling. It's going to be big. Right, I want you to look at me, not the wizards, if you can't talk then at least grunt interestingly, and we are live in three...two...one...Hello, sports fans!" he said, putting on a cheerful smile and slipping a microphone out of one dark sleeve. "I'm here with Edwyrd Kettlebelly, the coach of the hitherto unknown orc team that got into a punch-up this morning with no less than forty Blood Bowl teams. Mr Kettlebelly - was this an ingenious attempt to lower the numbers of some of your opponents, or were your murderous players just hungry for blood?"  
The microphone was thrust towards Edwyrd.  
"Er, well, it was an accident, really," he mumbled.  
"Of course," Jim said, "of course. So your team, the, uh, 'Orctown Oldboyz', hasn't been seen before in the big leagues, you've come to the Chaos Cup by way of a _very_ generous bribe given by the team owner, Leopold Bruckheim and made a bit of a splash...do you think this is the beginning for small teams trying to compete against the giants?"  
"Yes," Edwyrd said. "Er, yes, I think so."  
His face hardened, very slightly.  
"So, what," Jim pressed. "You think you and your minnows can make it through the play-offs?"  
Edwyrd hesitated. Then he leant forward, stared directly towards the Cabalvision orb.  
"I think we can do a little better than that," he said. "I think we can win. I think we can win the Chaos Cup."  
Silence. Broken only by the sound of one of the wizards sniggering and Cressida saying, a little too loudly,  
"WHAT?"  
Jim, recovering quickly, murmured, with a little laugh,  
"I, er, don't think your sense of humour's going to get through to the viewers at home, Mr Kettlebelly..."  
"I'm quite serious," Edwyrd said. "Place your bets, watch this space - the Orctown Oldboyz are the winners of this year's Chaos Cup. We're going to show everyone that doesn't believe in us just what we're capable of."  
For a moment Jim just stared at him.  
Then he turned back towards the wizards and said,  
"Big words...from a small man. I'm Jim Johnson - back to you in the studio, Bob."  
The wizard said,  
"Three...two...one...and we are off the air."  
Jim tapped his microphone thoughtfully against his chin.  
"Trying to get a bit of extra publicity with a controversial soundbyte, eh?" he said. "I get what you're doing. I can dig it. I'm afraid we will have to rubbish you, though. You know...make fun of you on our show, offer a prize to the listener who kills you, that sort of thing. Well, anyway, thanks for the story. Come on, lads, let's go find that ogre with two heads."  
They hurried off down the street.  
"Er, kotch?" Wazguttle asked, staring after them. "Iz we gunna win der Chaos Cup?"  
"Yes, Waz," Edwyrd said, stony-faced. "We are."  
Wazguttle thought about this.  
"Oh," he said. "Dat's good. I wuz kinda worried we wouldn't."  
Cressida laid a hand on Edwyrd's shoulder.  
"You didn't have to do that," she said.  
He didn't reply.  
"Edwyrd," she insisted, "if this is about your dad, then you don't have to-"  
He shook her off.  
"Yes," he snapped, "I do. You wouldn't understand, human."  
And, walking out through his old stone neighbourhood, he left the two of them standing there, Cressida looking humiliated, uncertain what to say.  
I won't turn back, he thought. Whatever I feel, no matter how it stings, I won't turn back to look at her.  
He kept walking, rounded the corner, and then the human and the orc were gone from view entirely.


	17. Chapter 17

Dok McKlowd was working on his jetpack.  
He wasn't a genius by any stretch of the imagination. Most of the little levers, tubes and steaming organs that filled the heavy leather contraption were as much a mystery to him as to everyone else. But somehow, without ever quite understanding the nitty-gritty of it, he always knew what he had to do next.  
He picked up a rock and stuffed it, hard, into the middle. Then he picked up another rock and began to hit the first rock with it.  
The coach had told him that if the jetpack couldn't be improved, it'd have to be scrapped. But Dok McKlowd liked his jetpack. He lived for those first few moments as you soared up into the air, free, the wind rushing up all around you, the empty sky spreading out on all directions...  
He wasn't too keen on what came afterwards, as your jetpack exploded, setting your skin on fire, leaving you to plummet down towards the hard, stony ground. But that was something to be ironed out in the improvements process.  
Now what had the coach said? He wanted it to be more something. 'Re'...something. Reli...rely...relia...  
Ah, yes. That was it.  
"Burnier," Dok McKlowd murmured. His eyes glowed green with excitement.  
And he knew what he had to do. The only problem was, he'd need someone else's help...  
He looked up and gazed around the camp.  
The Oldboyz, not being the sort to bother with tents, had simply piled up the remnants of the halflings' camp and set fire to it. Dik Der Cunnin' had eaten too much of the little fellows and passed out on the ground. Wazguttle, the coach, and Cressida had gone up the mountain for some reason. Fourtooth, apparently having put something rather odd into his pipe, was giggling in the foetal position just on the edge of the firelight. Badpipes had gone shamblabout chasing after Squiggie, who'd been chasing after the pet goblin. And Grobb and Flirksmasher were facing up to each other, arguing loudly about the news that the Ladz Own Simfoni Orcestra was going to be playing at the Cup's opening ceremony.  
"...yoo can go if yoo wantz, but der Simfoni Orcestra's fer grots!"  
"Fer grots? Yoo alwayz wuz stoopid, Flirk. Der Men-Yoo-Ate In Seaminer? Is dat fer grots?"  
"Oi," Dok McKlowd called.  
"Men-Yoo-Ate! Ha! Now, if dey'd 'ad a bit of Nail Unk, sum Sizemyhand Barfuncle, Bruise Prongstern..."  
"Bruise Prongstern? Now Bruise Prongstern's fer grots."  
"Oi," Dok McKlowd yelled, more loudly.  
"Dat's Der Boss yoo's talkin' bout, yoo elf-"  
Dok McKlowd threw a rock at them. It bounced off Flirksmasher's helmet, then rolled away into the darkness. They continued to argue.  
He sighed, and took another glance around the camp. Someone was missing.  
"Any of yoos seen Luggen?" he asked aloud.  
Nobody replied.

Luggen slipped through the darkness of the tents.  
The Oldboyz had settled themselves quite cheerfully at their camp in the south-easternmost field, and were even now enjoying a nice meal of roasted halfling.  
He'd left them, silently getting up and walking out of the circle of chairs. Nobody had noticed.  
He strode through camp after camp, unseen, only stopping to glance up at the occasional team banner.  
Close to the stadium, he passed one collection of tents that had sunk into a large, foul-smelling crater. The liquid earth bubbled and boiled as the afflicted team - now a group of small, slimy limbless creatures - wailed and tried to struggle out.  
Luggen stalked on.  
Near the tangled mass of bone that was the ruined registration gate, a couple of ghouls were fighting a single werewolf for the carrion.  
Luggen stalked on. He knew what he was looking for. A green-and-gold banner, and a great six sided die emblazoned upon it. The colours of the Motley Horde.  
He saw the torches burning from afar, by the northern entrance.  
A single, enormous scarlet tent, big enough to hold twenty men. And, standing at its entrance, two immensely tall figures in purple robes stood guard. They stood perfectly still, unmoving, unspeaking. Not making a sound.  
Luggen, from the shadows, regarded them with interest.  
And then he lowered himself down onto the ground and sat cross-legged, gazing all the while at the tent and its two intriguing watchmen. Without looking down, he reached into the grass, plucked up a wriggling centipede, and began to chew thoughtfully on it.  
Several hours later, as he was just starting to get bored and consider wandering back to the Oldboyz camp and picking a fight with someone bigger than him, his patience was rewarded. A tall figure, identically robed, emerged from the darkness of the tent. And, after it, another. Nine in all. They stood, noiseless, in a military line before their two brothers, and then turned and strode away into the darkness, quickly but unhurriedly. Their feet moved in perfect unison.  
Luggen hopped to his feet and, circling around to avoid being spotted by the two watchmen, followed the silent procession through the night. At one point he had to break into a run to keep up with them.  
He followed them through slumbering humans, hopping over the campfire of a couple of drunken-looking ogres, once just avoiding tripping over a massive lizard-creature that had laid itself out across the path.  
Eventually they halted, in front of the great skin-and-fur long-tent of the Chaos All-Stars, stooped, and entered, one by one.  
Luggen listened with interest to the sound of nine blades being unsheathed, followed by several minutes of muffled cries for help, moans of agony, and bodies falling aganst the fabric of the tent. A few moments later, the nine robed figures stepped back out of the tent, turned, and strode back away in the direction of their own camp.  
He counted to five, then strolled across and checked inside the All-Stars' tent.  
What was most interesting about the corpses, he thought, was the way that Gri'gok, the legendary Minotaur, had both of his black-furred hands raised, his great mouth open as if in terror at something he'd seen moments before his death. And the way that the Fes'gor brothers had had their throats slit so cleanly...yes, this was something to bear in mind.  
He stepped back out of the tent and was almost back into the safety of the darkness when someone caught hold of his arm.  
"Hello, ah, Luggen," Fellorian said, very calmly.  
Luggen jumped. He took a step back, glaring at the bald-headed man.  
"Surprised to see me?" Fellorian asked. "I don't know why. After all, you came here looking for me, didn't you?"  
He leant forward and hissed,  
"Looking to, ah, kill me?"  
Luggen did not move. Fellorian gave a little chuckle.  
"Well, I'm surprised to see you," he said mildly. "I suppose you're here with some small-time bunch of no-hopers, yes? Here with a big bribe and a big heart. Good for you."  
Luggen did not move.  
"Oh, cheer up, Luggen, you big idiot," snapped Fellorian. "You can't seriously tell me you're still angry about when we, ah, threw you off the team?"  
"It weren't bein' frown off the team so much," Luggen growled.  
Fellorian's eyebrows raised.  
"Ah," he said. So you're angry about when we threw you off the cliff?"  
"That were more it, yeah," Luggen said. His great fists flexed and unflexed.  
"Well, well," Fellorian murmured, "you clearly survived. And you got a nice scar to show off to all the pretty girls out of it. Don't be such a crybaby."  
Luggen nodded his head towards the darkness.  
"'Oo's these new boyz?" he asked. "Wot 'appened to Graht, and Ulrik Bearblade, and all der uvvers?"  
"Oh, you saw our new players?" Fellorian said, laughing. "They're, ah, marvellous, aren't they? Not very motley, but you can't have everything - just you wait until you see them play. No, the old brigade are all gone. Change of owner. I'm the only one left - and even that's in the coaching capacity. When I first started working for her," he sighed, "I thought I could go more into the 'power and conquest' side of things, but she's a Blood Bowl nut, of course. We all are, I suppose. Blood Bowl in the, ah, blood."  
He scratched furiously at his bald pate.  
"Right," he said. "Lovely to bump into you again, of course, but I'd, ah, better be off to bed. Good luck to you in the cup."  
He turned to go,  
Luggen stared after him.  
"I know wot yooz did!" he howled. "I can tell everyone! Yoo'll 'ave ter finish da job!"  
"No-one will believe you," Fellorian called, without turning back. "And if they did, no-one would care. It's all just Blood Bowl, Luggen. It's a rough sport. You never, ah, learnt that, I'm afraid."  
He glanced back. And smiled.  
"My poor, washed-up, stupid Luggen," he said. "You're just not worth killing any more."


	18. Chapter 18

_"Any other words on our cra-azy kettle of fish, dwarf coach Edwyrd Kettlebelly, Jim?"_

_"I met Kettlebelly a second time just after dawn, Bob. He told me he was going to find the Well of Souls, become the reincarnation of Sigmar, __**and**__ fight Khorne in single combat."_

_"BWAHAHA! On a more serious note - the entire Chaos All-Stars team was found butchered in their camp last night, hewn limb from limb. Apothecaries suspect a bad case of food poisoning."_

Edwyrd turned away from the Cabalvision set and faced the bar. It was eight in the morning, he was blind drunk, and he didn't care.

He was in the Fourth Corner tavern, devoted to the dark and twisted god Tzeentch. It wasn't a perfect drinking-hole, as you had to keep checking your drink to ensure it hadn't mutated into something, and the furniture had a habit of coming alive and running away – or, worse, biting your arm off.

But it was a choice between that or the First Corner, which served only blood, or the Second Corner, which offered 'a free plague with every pint'. And as for the fleshy, sickly pink, decidedly suspect-looking surroundings of the Third Corner...

He sighed and gazed down into his drink. The barman, a shifting, multi-limbed lump of tumorous matter, regarded him stoically.  
"Why the face?" it asked.

Edwyrd didn't reply. Instead, almost without thinking about it, he reached into the top of his armour, and took out a scrap of paper and a length of charcoal. Slowly, almost instinctively, he began to doodle blobs. Eleven little blobs, that moved across the paper with frightening precision and speed, working as a team, working as a unit...  
Indomitable, he thought. Strong, and proud, and stubborn, and indomitable.

But what do they do when they come up against something that's stronger? How do they break the cage that cannot be broken?

The eleven dots shifted into a new order. After he'd crossed it out in disgust, he turned the paper over and began again.

"Hey," a human said from the bar. "Play-off listings are up."

Edwyrd, slowly, got to his feet.

He stared at the glowing letters on the Cabalvision set as, slowly, the commentators read out the team listings and the names scrolled upwards.

Until, at last, he saw it. He could hear Jim and Bob giggling as they announced it.  
'Orctown Oldboyz'.

'**ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO**

…and the great Clock of Chaos looming over the player village struck ten, the impaled elves squealing in agony as they were struck repeatedly with the spiked hammer hanging above them.

On the great dark practice field to the east, the barren earth there flecked with tiny organic spikes that appeared to be growing, the Oldboyz waited. They were nervous; an air of tension hung between them, some indefinable sense that something was wrong.  
Cressida stared up and down the line, and then back towards the tents and banners of the player village.  
"Where der kotch?" Flirksmasher growled. The worry was all too audible in his voice.  
"He'll be here," Fourtooth said. "Probably just got caught up. You know. Business."  
"Where Luggen?" someone else asked. "He not here eivver."

Badpipes, his mouth open as if with some sudden realisation, raised a hand and began to pick his nose.  
"I 'eard," Dik said, slowly, "I 'eard dey like ter cook stuntie in some parts o' der world. Dey catch 'em and roast 'em wiv an apple in der mouf. What we gonna do if der kotch got et?"  
From all around, there were nods and murmurs of agreement.  
"Dat's right. I 'eard dat too."  
"I knew sum'un once who'd 'ad it."  
"Taste like chicken."

"He'll be here," Cressida repeated.  
"Nah, he won't," Grobb muttered.  
Cressida turned on him.  
"What?" she snapped, poking a finger in his pudgy green chest. "What did you say?"  
Grobb looked panicked.  
"I said 'e won't be 'ere," he mumbled. "'Cos 'e's already 'ere."  
He pointed.

As one, the orcs turned to stare at the tiny figure stumbling its way over the fields towards them. As it approached, it stopped to give them a little wave, and then fell over.

Edwyrd got back to his feet with some difficulty.  
"'S no problem," he slurred. "No problem at all. Now..."  
He gazed blissfully out over the worried faces of his team.  
"Guess who's in our play-off group?" he announced. "Y'not going to guess? Y'not going to guess? The Elhuin Falcons. Sounds like Prince what's-his-face wants a crack at us for what you did to him the other day, so he's bribed his way into our group hoping for some payback. I'n't that great? I'n't that fantastic?"  
Cressida clasped hold of his arm.  
"Edwyrd," she whispered in his ear, "just how drunk are you?"  
Edwyrd shook himself free and gave her knees a big hug.  
"Never meant to shout at you," he said. "Never wanted to do that. Never would hurt you. You know that. You're great. 'Just that my dad's never respected me. Never respected my career. He never respected my career!" he shouted.

Fourtooth sidled over to Cressida.  
"We should do something," he said.  
"I know!" Cressida replied. "Put him to bed, or..."  
Fourtooth gave her a look.  
"No," he said. "I mean we should have a drink as well. More fun if everyone's doing it."  
"Listen," Edwyrd called, clapping his hands together vaguely. "Listen, listen, listen. You're a great team. I mean that. I love you all, and I hope we have a great future together. But if we're going to make any kind of impact on this cup...we have to wisen up. We have to appreciate that there are teams here that are tougher than us, that are harder than us. Like the Chaos All-Stars...no," he added, blinking, "someone murdered them all, didn't they? All right...like Kroxigors United."  
Wazguttle stood to attention, his brow furrowed.  
"What do you do," Edwyrd said, "what do you do if the opposition's caging, and you simply can't break through? The ball-carrier's completely surrounded. You can't get to him - or her - and they're moving forward, fast, towards your endzone?"  
Silence. He stared around.  
"Well?" he snapped. "What do you do?"  
Grobb raised a hand.  
Then, slowly, he lowered it again.  
Edwyrd's eyes glinted.  
"Cressida?" he said. "Are you feeling brave?"  
Cressida, gazing at him warily, nodded.  
"Good," Edwyrd said. "Then I'm going to show you what to do when we can't break through a cage."

Edwyrd paced up and down. He was running purely on alcohol now, the honey-fuel churning through his uniquely dwarven digestive system. Keeping him going. Keeping him in the zone.  
"The timing of this," he said, is everything. "Waz, you pick a player at the corner of the cage and run at him. As soon as you see Waz start to run, Flirk, you run at him too, from the opposite direction. Make sure he doesn't know which player he's supposed to be facing. Bob Blacktooth, Dik - you come at the adjacent corner. Same routine, same timing, all simultaneous. If Badpipes can join as well, great - if not, don't worry about it."  
He beamed.  
"What?" Dik said. "Then we bash 'em?"  
"Perhaps," Edwyrd said. "It doesn't really matter. What matters is that everyone in the cage is distracted and looking in other directions so that when Grobb and Luggen pick up Cressida and throw her up high into the air so she lands in the very centre of the cage, everyone's too busy to block her off. The ball slips out of the carrier's hands - Cress, you try to get out with it if you can. And the cage is intact, but worthless - the ball's out. It's gone."  
Cressida said,  
"Er..."  
"What if she down?" Wazguttle asked. "We frow Badpipes instead?"  
"No," said Edwyrd. "Obviously, you can't throw...Cressida's the only one light enough to be thrown over the cage. If she can't get to you, then the move won't work."  
"I cud do der same fing wiv me jetpack," Dok McKlowd said, brightening up.  
"No," said Edwyrd. "No jetpacks, Dok. It's not reliable enough."  
Dok McKlowd looked rather hurt.

A long, thoughtful silence.  
"Right," Cressida said, striking a pose. She licked her lips and did her best to appear entirely unconcerned. "Let's...let's give this a go, shall we? Who wants to pick me up first?"


	19. Chapter 19

(AN: Should anyone pick up on the very lame cricket references in this next section, they will win the dubious honour of being included as one of the Oldboyz' lineorcs.)

***'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO***

Edwyrd buried his head in the water barrel.

Fourtooth, wandering past, stopped to clap him on the back.

"Great play, chief," he said. "All the boys were really impressed by it. I'm sure Cressida will want to thank you too, once she regains consciousness. They're all saying you should get drunk for training more often."

He strolled on.

Edwyrd closed his eyes, counted to ten, and tried to focus.

Then someone said, close to his ear.  
"Hell of a play, kid. You got chutzpah. Ain't nobody going to deny that."

Edwyrd flinched. He glanced up, and turned.  
And then turned back.

"Down here, kid," the voice said.  
Edwyrd looked down.

The tiny goblin was perched on the edge of the water barrel. It winked at him and waved a tiny cigar.  
"Er..." Edwyrd said. "Is this that last beer coming back to haunt me? I thought it tasted a little off."  
"Nah, nah," the goblin replied. "I'm legit. You ain't that drunk. Name's Jeremiah Grot. Pleased to meet you."  
It gave him a little salute.  
Edwyrd stared at it for a second.  
"I didn't realise you could speak," he said eventually. "I mean...I'm sorry. I kicked you. The boyz knock you around all the time...and didn't Badpipes eat you?"  
"Nah, nah," said Jeremiah. "I mean, sure, yeah, he did. But if you can figure out a successful offensive strategy against the Reikland Reavers, '41, peak of Griff's abilities, 3-0 down...then you can navigate your way out of a troll's digestive tracts, no problem."

Edwyrd said, frowning,  
"Sorry, what? What was that about the Reavers?"  
Jeremiah gave him a little grin.  
"I suppose I should present my credentials," he said, tapping his cigar ash into the barrel. "'39-'42, head coach of the Champions of Death. '43-'45, defensive strategist for the Evil Gitz. '46, I spent some tme in the belly of a Yheeti. Now, in '47-"  
"Hang on," Edwyrd said, "hang on, hang on, very funny. Tomolandry the Undying was the head coach of the Champions back in '39. It was right when he had that winning streak, the year he started wearing-"  
He stopped. A strange thought was crossing his mind.

"That's right," said Jeremiah. "The year he started wearing that 'lucky hat'. I was under it, tellin' the old boy he should have a little faith in himself. Same goes for Mardun Mawstench and his so-called 'second head'. I'm coach to the coaches, kid. I tell 'em when they should go with their gut and when they should try something new. Pleased to meet you."  
Edwyrd removed his helmet, slowly, and scratched it.  
"But look," he said. "Look, if you're...if you worked with all of those coaches, why were you...?"  
He trailed off.  
"Why was I hanging round a two-bit no-hope team like yours out in the sticks?" Jeremiah said. "Simple. I was trying out a new method of coaching. Subliminal. I crept up to them orcs in the middle of the night and whispered tactics to them. It...er...wasn't going all that well." He took a quick puff. "Then you came along. You showed a bit of moxie. You showed heart, kid. But you know these boyz aren't ready to face the big leagues. You've seen the teams they'll be up against. You've watched 'em play on Cabalvision. If you want to try and make a decent show of yourselves this tournament...well, you're going to have to have more tricks up your sleeve than throwing your own players at the opposition."  
He gestured off in the direction of the rest of the player village. Edwyrd followed his gaze.

There, lumbering slowly through the tents, were the Oldheim Ogres. Just past them, jumping excitedly up and down, juggling the ball in their tails and hands, were the Warpfire Wanderers. And to the right, cheerfully snapping the limbs of a stricken Bretonnian player who'd had the audacity to turn up, was the legendary Morg 'N' Thorg himself. He stopped to sign an autograph for a small boy, and then tore off the knight's leg and handed it to the child as a souvenir.

"All right," Edwyrd said. He glanced back at the tiny goblin. "All right...what did you have in mind?"

***'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO***

As the great stadium filled, the great, the large, and the small took their seats together in the terraces, shook each other's hands, made wagers, and punched one another in the face. Above them, in the scarlet boxes, vampiric aristocrats and wealthy merchant princes popped open their complimentary Champain bottles, tittered excitedly, and in at least one case, tipped a cauldron of boiling oil over the side onto the peasants below.

On the barren brown pitch, dozens of workers were scurrying back and forth, avoiding the whips of Pith'igor and his fellows, putting the finishing touches to the toxic fireworks which were to explode in the sky above. The elven princess, who'd spent all day in her giant wicker cage as they set up all around her, had stopped screaming and heaving her bosom magnificently and was now looking rather bored instead. And, in the very centre, nineteen worried-looking sorcerers were muttering arcane incantations as they prepared to summon a Bloodthirster of Khorne to preside over the opening ceremony.

The voices boomed out around the stadium;

_"Helloo, sports fans! Bob Bifford here on this bright sunny morning, saying 'Happy Chaos Cup' to all of you! I'm joined, as ever, by my colleague-in-arms, Jim Johnson-"_

"Morning to you, Bob, and do we have a cracker of a day lined up! Three play-off matches throughout the afternoon, six teams fighting for those early points - but first, here's Angelica Buttek on the ground with a report on the opening ceremony. Angelica."

_"Hello, Jim, hello, Bob! Well, we're all ready to kick off here - and as the fireworks burst out into the air, the hundred-thousand-strong crowd erupts into cheering, as well as those millions watching from their homes, and the sorcerers prepare to release the Bloodthirster-"_

The purple, golden, black and red explosions lit up the sky - forming into the shape of the cup itself. And, with a tearing sound, a hole opened up in reality at the centre of the pitch. Through the gap, shrouded in crimson fog, a creature out of nightmare stepped through, twenty feet high, roaring in primal, animal anger. Its great wings beat at the air, and in its hand was an enormous spiked axe.

_"And the sorcerers are running up to the Bloodthirster with the official Chaos Cup scissors, so that it can cut the ribbon and the elf and open the games...but...no, it looks like it's decided to attack them instead. They're fighting back with dark magic, but it's tearing their heads off too fast. This really wasn't a good idea, and-"_

"Angelica, do you think you could try and get an interview with it? A few words for the fans?"

"I can try - I'm just going to approach it now – excuse me, sir! Sir! I- OHH NO, OH, GODS, NO, NO, PLEASE DON'T-"  
  
The crowd shrieked in delight. The Bloodthirster threw Angelica's broken corpse over the stand and returned to stamping down on the sorcerers scurrying about under its feet. Unnoticed, the elven princess freed herself of her bonds, hopped out of the cage, and ran away across the pitch and into the crowd.

"The Bloodthirster, it seems, wasn't available for comment," Jim said, sipping at his coffee.

Bob shifted his enormous body casually in the cramped confines of the commentary box and replied,

"Well, at least we got to see some blood. Ceremony was getting a little Khorne-y. Ha! Hey, Jim, you get it? Khorne-y?"

"Hilarious. Well, the Bloodthirster's flapped its wings and flown up out of the stadium, swearing to bring bloody wrath and carnage down upon the peoples of the world; meanwhile the cheerleaders are lining up for the presentation by the Head of the Referee's Association, and I'd just like to thank Mildred Schinzter for sending us this lovely chocolate-and-caramel cake, ah, topped with vanilla icing featuring a crudely drawn picture of Bob and myself. Very tasty, Mrs Schinzter."

And so the Chaos Cup began.

***'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO***

The rickety sub-stadium stood a little way out from the main arena. Cramped and hurriedly-built, it held a couple of thousand spectators. It was, Snikrit thought, an insult to play your first match here. A deliberate snub-snub. And the Cabalvision cameras were only Channel Nine, and the commentators were from the undead-only-distribution channel Fester Match Special.

Snikrit spat and cracked his long pink tail like a whip.  
Well, he told himself, we'll show them. We'll show them all.

The commentators' voices boomed out over the speakers. He heard his name mentioned - a roar went up from amongst the crowd.

_"...you really think it's a foregone conclusion, Bluerz?"  
"Vizout a doubt, Tough Nell, vizout a doubt. The Skavenblight Scramblers hav been playing magnificently - Snikrit, as I said, but also Daggerblade, Knifestab and Deathmurder - all of zem, particularly deadly. Vereaz ze Motley Horde...well, I don't even recognise zese names! 'Number One'...'Number Two'...vot ze hell is zat?"_

Snikrit preened his facial fur self-consciously.

"You assume old player Daneas Fellorian knows what he's doing, though."

_"You don't vin Blood Bowl viz nobodies, Nell. Speaking of vich, vere ze hell are ze players? If zey want to - no, vait, zis looks like zem and...vat ze hell is zat?"_

Snikrit turned, as the wooden gates of the opposition changing room creaked slowly aside.  
A figure, seven feet high, strode out of the darkness. It was human in proportions, but its skin was a peculiar shade of metallic silver. From each of its wrists, extending over its clenched fingers, was a great polished spike. And its eyes were burning with a purple flame.  
And, after it, came ten more like it - identical in proportion and appearance. Walking in rhythm. Unspeaking. A strange smile on each of their faces. The crowd fell silent, as if uncertain how to react.

The Motley Horde lined up on the other side of the pitch, in the classic defensive formation.

Snikrit scuttled up to the human referee.  
"What's this-this?" he hissed, tapping the man on the shoulder. "What those things-things?"  
The referee turned. His face was pale; his expression one of a man who has stared into the depths of his soul.  
"You get choice of kick-off," he whispered, hoarsely. "The Horde have conceded it to you."  
"What's going on-on?" Snikrit insisted. "Why those blades allowed?"

The referee lowered his gaze.  
"I'm so sorry," he said, quietly. "Please forgive me."  
A chill ran up Snikrit's spine. He caught hold of the man's arm.  
"Bribe-bribe?" he asked. "We match it. We double-double it."  
The referee shook him loose.  
"I'm so sorry," he repeated, and ran back towards the halfway line. Snikrit couldn't help noticing how he positioned himself on the very edge of the pitch, as if he really didn't want to get in the way - worse, as if these new players were capable of worse things than the bloodthirsty fans who tended to lurk around the corners of the field.

He turned back and tried to focus on the game.

Tried, because as the whistle blew and one of the silver men kicked the ball up into the air, another of the Horde's players had leapt after it, moving with a speed and grace that seemed impossible for a creature so large-

-and caught it, mid-air, before landing down onto the pitch with a colossal thump that knocked several Scramblers off their feet.

Snikrit began to run.  
"Stop him!" he yelled. "Stop him-him!"

He felt the pressure; the sensation of something huge bearing down upon him to the left.  
In spite of himself, he stopped, and turned. And froze.

The last thing Snikrit knew, before the silver blade sliced down through his neck tendons, was pure terror, and the last thing he saw was its burning purple eyes.


	20. Chapter 20

THUMP. THUMP.

_"...big-mouthed minnows the Orctown Oldboyz...first match against the Servants of Slaan...defensive..."_

THUMP. THUMP.

Edwyrd could hardly hear the sound of the commentators' voices over the noise of the crowd, who were stamping their feet in unison in the wooden stands above the cramped, hot locker room. A small cloud of dust puffed outwards, and down. The stamping got louder, and faster.

The Oldboyz looked nervous. Most of them kept their great heads fixed on their own boots. In the corner, Fourtooth was gnawing on the handle of his pipe.

"I nevvur fort it'd 'appen," Grobb murmured. "We'z gonna be on Cabalvision. In front of everyun."

"It only Channul 51," Wazguttle said. "It got vewin' figgers of eighty-two." But he looked a little pale nonetheless.

Edwyrd exhaled, heavily, and got to his feet. He was trying not think about the blue-and-black 'Gut Edwyrd Kettlebelly If We Don't Win The Cup' shirts he'd seen on sale outside the stadium. The vendor had told him they were selling like hot cakes.

"All right, everyone," he said. "First of all, we've got a special pigeon-delivered message from our owner, Mr Bruckheim, wishing us all luck in 'ze cup' and telling us that if we don't win, we're all fired. And I just want to say myself how proud I am of all of you. It doesn't matter to me what happens today - just play your best, and you'll have no reason to feel ashamed."

Eleven sullen, depressed faces gazed at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he made out the tiny figure of Jeremiah Grot, leaning against the wall. What was it he'd suggested, again...? Ah, yes; that was it.

"By the way," he said, "I heard the other team say you were a bunch of spineless snotlings."

"_DEY'RE_ SNOTLINGS!" Flirksmasher roared. It took three teammates to forcibly restrain him.

"All right, all right," Edwyrd continued. "Focus on the Skinks, don't - repeat, don't - let them slip through your legs - be careful of the Sauruses, they're as big as you are and you could easily hurt your fist punching one of them. Badpipes - your mark is the Kroxigor. Intimidate it psychologically - scare the hell out of it. Make sure it's too afraid of you to pay attention to any of the other players."

Badpipes farted, joyously.

"It's time," Edwyrd said. "Get out there and make me proud."

The wooden locker-room door swung open. And the Oldboyz pounded out into the light.

As Edwyrd jogged out after them, it was the sheer weight of the noise - roars, hoots, mocking cheers, laughters, boos, from a thousand mouths, all at once - that make him take a step back. Which was fortunate, because it meant that the rock flung at his head clattered off the wooden stands instead. He ran, his head ducked, to the relative safety of the coaching dugout at the front of the pitch, dodging projectiles as he went.

The crowds all around him and above him were, he couldn't help noticing as he settled himself inside, predominantly made up of...reptilian things. An enormous anaconda slithered away beneath his seat. A troupe of chameleons perched on the very edge of the stands, their skin transforming to the bright pink-and-green of the Servants of Slaan.

He glanced across his opposite number - a bloated, frog-like creature, slouched across the wooden bench.

"Good luck to you," he said. The frog blinked at him, but did not reply.  
_  
"Hello, those of you Channel 51 viewers just tuning in for the first time," someone bellowed from over the loudspeakers. "I'm Chug Durwin and with me, as ever, is my partner in crime, Rikkit Pestilenz. Rikkit - the Oldboyz coach sure looks spooked."_  
_  
"He should-should be, Chug. The Servants have won-won their last three matches in a row, once against the Oldheim Ogres. Sure, they lost-lost five players, but they still won-won the match."_

Edwyrd tried to focus on the pitch. There was a slight pressure as Jeremiah hopped up onto his shoulder.

"Don't worry, chief," he said. "They'll make the buggers dance."

On-field, the Oldboyz, having lost the toss, were getting themselves into position. On the line of scrimmage, Flirksmasher, Wazguttle and Badpipes faced up to their opposite numbers. The big troll gave his mark, a hulking Kroxigor, an intense stare. The beast stared back.

The whistle blew; the ball went flying out of Grobb's grasp, and the players dashed forward. Badpipes and the Kroxigor remained quite still, staring at each other. Drool was beginning to break from between the lizard's teeth.

A tiny Skink, pirouetting through the air, caught the ball. It ran, hopping out of Bob Blacktooth's fumbling grasp with apparent ease. Across the pitch, Dok McKlowd's jetpack coughed and spluttered green flame, setting the face of a Saurus on fire.

"Catch it!" Edwyrd yelled. "Catch it!"

Wazguttle swung an enormous fist towards the Skink - and punched Dik Der Cunnin' in the face.

_"Ooh, that hurt-hurt - and now the two orcs are fighting amongst themselves-selves," _cried the Skaven commentator through the loudspeakers. _"And Critch the Unheralded is running for the endzone-"  
_  
Cressida leapt, catching the little lizard by its hind-leg, and swung. It tumbled out across the grass, the ball flying after it, and landed.

Luggen, getting to his feet, kneed it in the head. He stooped to the ball, but before he could reach it, he was lifted into the air and unceremoniously dump-tackled by a Saurus. Another Skink swept in to pick up the ball - and now it was flanked by two of the larger lizards. Cressida stepped forward once again. Her shoulders were stooped, ready to intercept.

Edwyrd's cry of, "No!" was lost in the howl of excitement - the shrieks of delight as blood sprayed up into the air. The human tumbled back, crumpling against the grass. Her body looked very small.

_"And the Oldboyz' runner goes down. She's not dead, Rikkit - I can see her twitching. More's the pity."  
_  
"Time out!" Edwyrd yelled. "Time out!" Beside him, Fourtooth was hurriedly rummaging through his apothecary's bag. Behind Cressida, the little Skink ran forward and excitedly celebrated its touchdown.

Fourtooth, Wazguttle and Grobb carried Cressida off the field. Edwyrd caught a glimpse of her face before she was deposited inside the dugout - pale, bloodied, her eyes tightly shut, her head lolling at an unnatural angle. Fourtooth looked pale himself as he began to unwind his bandages. The two Orcs gave her a sympathetic look, and then hurried back onto the pitch. Missiles spattered down against the dugout roof.

The Oldboyz looked rattled; an early touchdown, and a player down. They took up their positions again, but with slumped shoulders and a slight lack of ease. The lizards hissed, already sensing triumph, and flicked their tails. Loud jeers were beginning to ring out from amongst the crowd.

Edwyrd gazed down at Cressida. Her eyes opened, just. Her fingers, slowly, snaked into his.

"Sorry, coach," she whispered, and lost consciousness.

Edwyrd murmured, half to himself, patting her hand,

"It's quite all right. It's quite all right."

And, at that moment, in one of the highest seats in the stands, a tiny human figure - dressed in blue and white and black - got to their feet, and began to sing. A simple song. A chant, really; one that had a natural, clapping rhythm to it, and swagger and heart. And as the tune carried, the crowd began to clap along - at first weakly, then with more vigour, some of them even shouting along the chorus as it came.

"One dwarf, eleven orcs, shouting in the street,  
Gonna take on the Auld World some day.  
You've got blood on your face.  
And that other player's face.  
Looks like you hit him too hard with that mace.  
Singing - WE WILL, WE WILL BASH YOU.  
WE WILL, WE WILL, BASH YOU."

The hairs stood up on the back of Edwyrd's neck.

As the song began to echo around the stadium, the Oldboyz roared. Wazguttle pounded his fists; little Dok McKlowd stamped his feet. And the Servants of Slaan, confused, and a little taken aback, hesitated. At the very second the whistle blew, they hesitated, and the Orcs were already charging into the opposition half, the ball clasped safely in Grobb's hands, by the time the lizards began to move. Dik Der Cunnin', with a shriek of animal bloodlust, sat on a Skink. Flirksmasher snatched hold of a Saurus' head in both hands, stared into its glistening eyes, and head-butted it. Badpipes and the Kroxigor, still unmoving, continued to stare one another down, with ever-increasing intensity. As Grobb pounded forward across the pitch, a lone Skink leapt out of his way with a piteous yelp.  
_  
"The Oldboyz move forward - they've got the crowd on their side now."_

"Brutally maiming the opposition-opposition tends to have that effect, Chug."

Orc flung itself at lizard; the bodies began to pile up at the end of the pitch. A Skink's ankle snapped. Finally, Grobb broke free, ran, and tossed the ball down into the grass of the endzone. The whistle went.

_"Sigmar's blood, a touchdown to the Oldboyz! And with one half to go and a Saurus being taken off the pitch, this match just got interesting."_

_"The Servants-Servants look rattled-rattled, that's for sure. I don't think they were expecting such a strong forward attack-attack."_

Edwyrd smiled. Cressida's fingers clasped and unclasped between his. Her skin was, he couldn't help noticing, exceptionally soft. And she was smiling.

***'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO***

_"Second-half kick-off, and the Oldboyz have the ball - hang on, what's this on the right wing?"_

Luggen took hold of the Saurus' arms; Dik grabbed its feet. With a cheery cry of, "Buh-bye!", they tossed it out into the stands, where it was immediately set upon by the seething crowd. A repeated crunching sound suggested that this player was unlikely to get up, ever again. Grobb, meanwhile, managed to trip on the Kroxigor's swinging tail and tumbled onto the ground, apparently stunned. The ball went flying. A Skink outstretched its tiny hands - and was crushed beneath the hard leather. The spectators screamed their approval.

"Boys are doing well, eh?" Jeremiah muttered, from Edwyrd's shoulder. He lit one of his miniature cigars.

Dok McKlowd scooped up the ball, dodged, and ran.

_"He's going for it - HE'S GOING-GOING FOR IT! A SECOND TOUCHDOWN FOR THE OLDBOYZ!"_

On the other side of the pitch, Badpipes and the opposition Kroxigor squinted at each other with increased intensity. Their gazes grew more and more savage; more and more ferocious.

And then finally, its eyes glazing over, the big reptile toppled over backwards.

And before Edwyrd knew it, crouched in the dugout beside Cressida, the whistle blew one last time.

_"The Orctown Oldboyz have won their first match in the playoffs! A cracking game, Rikkit - and what a turn-around! Has the coach put his money where his mouth is?"_

"Good match-match. Too early to tell, of course-course, but there's clearly some talent-talent there. Let's keep our eyes on this team-team."

The large frog-creature flicked its tongue at Edwyrd and slunk away into the stands.

***'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO***

The Oldboyz relaxed in the sunshine, slumped across the grassy knoll outside the main stadium that was Hangman's Hill. Above them, the decorated corpses swung merrily from the gibbets.

"Cress gon' be all right," Wazguttle said, at last. "She 'ard. She proper orc-y."

There was a general murmur of agreement.

"But we done it, though, ain't we?" Flirksmasher added. "We beat dis real team in dis real cup. We's con-tent-ers. And it all fanks to der kotch."

An enormous, collective roar went up from inside the arena.

"Who playin'?" Grobb asked.

"Der Pristz Pirates," Dok McKlowd said, staring up at the sky, "and Der Motley Horde."

Luggen did not look up. Another roar - which, unusually for a Blood Bowl crowd - had the slightest hint of a gasp to it.

"Sound like someone playin' well," Wazguttle murmured.

Two apothecaries, dressed in the black colours of the Pristz Pirates, came running out through the stadium gates. A bloodied, screaming player in the same outfit lay on their stretcher, clutching a spurting stump of an arm.

"Who winnin'?" Dik called, as they passed.

The player turned to stare at the Oldboyz. His face was drawn in agony and in primal fear.

"The shapeless protoplasm," he whispered. "The starspawn of Nuffle, the falling sky, the eternal flame! Plague, drowning and ruin upon all of our heads!"

The orcs watched stoically as the stretcher moved off, its occupant still babbling.

"Guess that mean his team ain't winnin'," said Grobb.

He became aware of a curious tapping sensation against his left knee. A small human child was standing, a little shyly, in front of him.

"'Scuse me, sir," it said, "but could you sign my Skink's head?"

Grobb dutifully dipped his finger into the grey juices inside the lizard's severed head, and painted a sort of squiggle across its scalp. The child beamed, bobbed its head, and ran away into the mass of food tents, where it could be seen proudly showing off its prize to a couple of boys of a similar age.

"Yup," Wazguttle said, lying back, "everyfing comin' up roses. Der Oldboyz is on der rise."

Badpipes stretched out an arm, lazily, plucked one of the corpses from the gibbet, and began to munch on it.


	21. Chapter 21

Bob Bifford gave the cameras a big, conspiratorial grin. His teeth were flecked with little globlets of red flesh.

"And another draw for the Orctown Oldboyz," he said, "a fine performance from the boyz in blue against the Star-Strangled Clamour, with two touchdowns on either side and a great moment when that little fella with the jetpack exploded. If they manage a draw against the Elhuin Falcons, they'll be through to the play-offs. Ready to say you were wrong about this team, Jim?"

There were a few titters from around the studio. Jim Johnson, adjusting his shiny black glasses, gave his commentary partner a glare.

"Well, they're still not going to win," he snapped. "But, yes, there's no doubt that this team has merit. Classic bashing play with a greater tendency towards the agility game than most orc teams...helped largely by the presence of their wingers, one of whom, I might add, is not an orc."

"Reminiscent of Tomolandry the Undying's season win with the Champions of Death in '86, don't you think?" Bob asked. He was enjoying himself.

Jim spread his fangs wide in a grin that was neither natural nor pleasant.  
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, we've got a list of our Top Ten Gruesome Deaths coming right up - but before that, we're speaking to a manager and a coach who have quite a lot of entries on that list, stars of another Synderella story; Lady Whitedeath and Daneas Fellorian, welcome."

"Thrilled to be here, Mr Bifford, absolutely thrilled," said the Lady, shifting in her seat with genuine girlish excitement.  
From beside her, Fellorian rolled his eyes.

"So," Jim said, "The Motley Horde hasn't had a single touchdown scored against it in any of its three matches so far - and it's killed no less than twenty-five players. Tell us - what exactly are these eight-foot-high silver killing machines you've got on your team, and are they legal?"

"Quite legal, Jim," Fellorian snarled, quickly. "The Chaos Cup Association of Referees have declared the Motley Horde one-hundred-percent tournament legal."

"And those twenty referees who voted 'nay', it appears," Bob said, flicking through his papers, "all perished in the same landslide while trying to climb the slopes of Mount Kratek. Such was the force of said landslide that many of them appeared to have been speared upon tree-branches."

"Proving," said the Lady, "that all of them were exceptionally poor at making decisions."  
Jim made a high-pitched little cackle.

"No," he said, "but seriously...are they golems? Possessed statues of some kind? Daemons?"  
The Lady leant over, and very gently touched him on the arm. A smile played about her pale lips.

"Jim," she said, "as the old saying goes, curiosity killed the vampire and his entire immediate family."

***'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO***

"Fellorian," the Lady said, as they ducked back into her tent, "what are these things, exactly? Are they golems?"

Fellorian smiled. He'd wondered at her stupidity - or not her stupidity, perhaps, so much as her single-mindedness, her tendency to make basic assumptions and then drift on from there - in not asking before.

"No," he said, "no, milady, they are not. Golems are slow, golems are stupid. Our players are neither."

The Lady slumped down in her throne.  
"That old ruined temple where you found them," she murmured, "it wasn't a shrine to Tzeentch."  
"No."

"Nor Khorne."  
"Indeed not."

"Not Nurgle either."  
"Quite."

"And certainly not to Slaanesh."  
"I do not see any overtly phallic appendages growing from our players' skin."

"And they're not," the Lady mused, "anything to do with some tedious human god or anything else. So what's left?"  
Fellorian smiled, thinly.

"All that matters, milady," he said, "is that these creatures do exactly what is asked of them, kill when necessary and win the Chaos Cup. And, I assure you, they are…entirely under my control."

It was best, he thought, not to tell his mistress about the inscription scratched into the wall of the ruined temple. It'd only worry her. 


End file.
